


Avast!

by captaincuppy



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Biting, Blood Play on a Whole New Level, Blood and Gore, Bruises, Death, Ed No, Ed YES, Eventual Smut, Fictional Historic Era, First Time, Knife Play, Lots of Death Actually, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Okay Look I Have No Idea, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Play, Praising/Humiliation Kink, Romance, Sassy Gay Pirate Captain, Sea Porn, This IS Fucking Hard, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-06 14:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6757636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincuppy/pseuds/captaincuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oswald Cobblepot is the proud captain of the pirate ship Iceberg. He crosses paths with the surgeon Ed Nygma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trial of the Devil

“Goodbye, Fish.”

  
Lightning flashes through the blade, blood drawing and dousing the light. Oswald is hanging on the cordage, grabbing the ropes with his free hand. His broken ankle lops over the rail as the brigantine is clomping on whitecap waves.

  
Fish’s boot heels tat on the gunwale. She’s balancing on the narrow wood, sleek as a cheetah. Her cutlass splashes into the ocean. Nails are clogging the naked, pulsing flesh on her waist.

  
She grins one last time with black teeth, sweltering -

  
“It’s all good.”

\- and Oswald spatters the blade with her beating heart.

He screams into the storm, and the rugged sky rumbles back. Fish drops dead, curly waves wreathing and swallowing her body, clasping close to feed on her. The wind backs away as the next thunderbolt sparkles, drying Oswald’s parted lips with salty haze. He’s panting. The drops settle on his tongue, in his throat.

  
He stares behind. The shipboard cracks under lifeless bodies: Fish’s crew stares back at him with bloodless, misty pupils.

  
Oswald drops to the deck, pain flaming through the cay of his veins. The smooth board is greasy with saliva, seawater and blood. Another wave lumbers through the deck and Oswald clings harder to the ropes. He throws his head back, neck tightening. His yearning look meets eyes in the depth of the abyss above him: irises gold as the moon, glowing with fey beams.

  
A crooked smile smears on Oswald’s face.

  
He holds up his bloody sword, roaring victoriously, and the sea whists.

⚓

The brigantine used to be a slave ship. Fish used to lay in the ship’s insides, chained to nearly fifty people choking on their own muck and steam.

  
Fish blew the coals, instigating to rebel against their torturers. A week later the ship became hers; corpses were splashed into the waves, cold and heavy as stones. Fish Mooney, the slave-captain sailed back to Barbados where she set the sufferers free and took the wretches with her. She conquered and she ruled all.

  
Five years later, Oswald joined the crew.

⚓

Fish found him behind a tavern, shivering in dirt and mud. He was beaten half to death. He tried to soak his blood up with a handful of straw and his torn clothes.

  
“What you did?”

  
Oswald shook his head feverishly. He started to tear up.

  
“Speak, boy. What you did?”

  
Fish’s voice was harsh, sharp-edged and deep. English words twirled from her black lips, broken and mistaken. As she leaned ahead, her pearl-laced dreadlocks and bone amulets falled in front of her naked breasts.

  
“You stole them money? Is that truth?”

Oswald nodded and Fish hummed. She left him for the night and came back for him at dawn. She found him alive so she took him away.

And Oswald hated her for it.

⚓

The brigantine is floating towards the shore. Oswald stands on the quarterdeck, motionless, letting the storm and the summoned phantom strength to put twenty men’s job through.

The wind blows Nassau’s rumble towards him.

⚓

The tavern’s back chamber is filled with smoky air. Oswald is sitting behind dim lights and heavy, velvet drapes. He’s surrounded with rustling silk and royal mahogany, waiting for the New Providence’s rogues to be admitted to his presence.

  
Some faces look familiar. They’ve heard about him, heard the rumors going around, rumors sweet and drunken under starless skies. Poisoned words, choked on erratic tongues.

  
This ends now.

  
Quill scrapes on the parchment, drawing lines of shed blood. Oswald cuts their wrists with a curt knife, letting the sizzling blood weeze as he swears them all.

  
Names twirl into one another. Thirtyfive highwaymen are in the pay of Oswald, lasses and lads, veterans and privates.

  
And the Moon slowly wheels round on the sky.

⚓

April’s first Monday dawns with a carmine Sun. Oswald is quivering under crude covers in the tavern’s quarter. He sticks to the fabric, nude and sweaty. His tongue is a dry piece of meat in his mouth. Rays of light break through the wooden louvers, motes are twirling.

  
Oswald slips from below the covers. His clothes crinkle under his feet as he blindly steps on them. He peeks behind him.

  
The one-eyed watchman lies next to him, prone, sunkissed skin exposed. Oswald’s glance crawls through him, the arc of the arse, hips, and scapulas. He sniffs and smirks, and the other man’s muscles tense.

⚓

Oswald finds his crew all over the tavern, laying around like lushers. They lean into one another, snoring and fidgeting. Cutlasses hang from the ceiling, buckled onto leather belts and boots and hats.

  
Oswald waddles down the stairs. He is kneading his pulsing temples as he steps above two girls curled into each other. One of them is his striker: her heart-shaped face is buried into the harlot’s mellow bosom. Oswald grabs the girl’s shoulder to turn her before she chokes.

  
He probes around. Barrels of beer, rum and gin were drawn off at night. The routing speeches soon crumbled into rapturous songs and screams of pleasure as hours guttered away in the cold.

  
Oswald let them carouse to conciliate their trust and sympathy. It was the first day of April so they couldn’t start their voyage; Oswald tries to hide it, but he’s always been superstitious like any other man of the seas.

  
Oswald’s barefoot, wearing nothing but black pants and a lacey lavender shirt. The strip floor cracks under his stumpy steps. He takes out his pistol, swinging his arm, firing to the ceiling. The bullet clicks on the copper curl of the chandelier, throwing it off balance. A boot falls in front of Oswald with a soft bump. He reaches out for it, pulling it up on his crooked ankle.

  
The shot made his crew jump, all of them starting from the strip floor. Pixy-led minds and misty glances hunt for Oswald.

  
“On your feet, my friends,” he says, smiling softly. “Rising times should be celebrated with sacrifice.”

⚓

They haul Mooney’s brigantine onto the soft sand. The ship’s sides are clamped with ropes and timbers. The crew is scrubbing her through with holystones, some hauling the stolen booty to the shores.

  
The paymaster is huddled up in the shadow of the palm trees, jotting into the logbook with his unharmed hand. He shouts out to Oswald.

  
“How does it look?,” Oswald asks, chewing on his ripped nails.

  
The man looks up at him, knocking on the catalog with his hook. His temples are sweaty and his glance is fidgety. He dies up his skin with a rusty drape.

  
“Not much. The tobacco is of excellent quality, though. Is it Spanish?”

  
Oswald nods. The paymaster continues:

  
“I know someone. He sells the stolen ware to tradesmen. We can double our income with him.”

  
“I’ll go with you. The arrangement must be done today. We’ll take off tomorrow. I hate this weather.”

  
“Yes, Captain.”

⚓

They find the old man in bed. He’s smoking a pipe in a silk robe. He muffled himself up with velvet, woven with gold. There’re papers all over his bed, the pages of the books and the canvases of the paintings eaten alive by the mould. They’re crumpled and soaked, bending in the tropic steam.

  
The air is suffocating. Nothing leaks through the wooden louvers, neither a beam of light, nor fresh air.

  
Oswald coughs into his handkercher and holds it there.

  
The old man’s eyebrows arch.

  
“Come closer, captain.”

  
Oswald steps to the bed.

  
“You seem familiar. Who did you serve before?”

  
“Fish Mooney, sir.”

  
“Fish Mooney. Are you that bastard who sent her to the depth of the ocean?”

  
“Yes, sir. The _Nymph_ is mine now.”

  
“What happened to her crew?”

  
“I’ve sabered everyone with my own hands. They’re all dead men.”

  
“Are you coping with her wares?”

  
Butch teeters by the end of the bed and Oswald shrugs lightly. His lips curl into a proud, gentle smile.

  
“She won’t make use of it anymore, will she?”

  
The old man chuckles. It drowns into coughing.

  
The sound of soft knocking breaks Oswald away from the business. A lanky man steps in, undescried as a ghost. Oswald looks him up and down from a distance. His glance is returned: dark irises eye him behind glasses, intrigued.

  
He is escorted in by a sullen maid.

  
“Doctor.” The old man gestures and smiles. “Please excuse me, Sir. I will welcome you in a minute. Whilst you wait, let me treat you to a glass of brandy. Liza, please.”

  
The girl bows. The doctor nods. He is twirling his hat between bony fingers. His tender, dazed glance captures Oswald, sleeking through him, loitering over his crooked leg. Oswald snarls quietly.

  
The door closes behind them. The old man clears his throat and dips the quill into ink.

  
His offer is more than satisfying. Still, Oswald enters into a debate: his chaffer gains him more than he could have wished for.

  
The old man’s palm feels limp and damp in his as they shake hands.

  
“I like you, captain. I do hope you will not disappoint me. Where does your path carry you?”

  
“Northwards. If the winds are graceful to me.”

⚓

The doctor is waiting by the door, glass of brandy in hand. Seeing Oswald makes him grin as he swallows the last drops. As Oswald limps past him, he follows in his wake. Butch’s hand slicks to his pistol on his thick waistbelt. Oswald heaves his hand and sends him ahead.

  
They stand alone in the door, seized between the windy hall and the porchway. The curtains flutter and float in the sweaty air. Oswald leans into the doorframe, crossing his arms.

  
“Can I help you?,” he asks affably. The curtain caresses his neck.

  
“I’ve seen your ship coming to anchor. You came arm-in-arm with the dawn, wrapped in blood and salt.” He muses: “It was such a fascinating scene to behold.”

  
“Thank you.”

  
“You were all alone on board, if I’m not mistaken.”

  
Oswald turns to him. His glance and nostrils are flaming.

  
“What are you aiming at, doctor?”

  
His voice is stiffly cool. The doctor steps closer, pulling the curtain away with his hand. Oswald stares back at him, chin raised.

  
“You’ve recruited a crew in a mere day.”

  
“If you’re planning to inform me about every single act of mine, it’s only decent of me to tell you that I’m well aware of them.”

  
The doctor chuckles. The tip of his tongue slithers through his dry lips, seducing Oswald’s glimpse before he looks him deep in the eye again. The mahogany irises are glowing with bitter flames.

  
The maid steps out of the shadows.

  
Oswald snorts.

  
“Don Falcone wishes for your presence. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

  
The doctor puts his hat back on. He lets the curtain fall back between them, hiding Oswald’s face in fair dusk.

  
“ _I’_ ve been kept waiting.”

⚓

The brigantine has a new Jolly Roger and a new name. Now, the _Nymph_ is now known as _Iceberg._ They tear the old flag off (a skeleton of a fish, a beating human heart between its ribs), slicing it up with harp cutlasses. In the new flag, there’s a cranium of an albatross, bloodstained dagger in its beak.

  
The winds softly swell the sails. The seawater is translucid, glowing with blinding sparkler beams. Oswald is standing by the forecastle deck, observing the master carpenter’s work with an eye. The girl is working on the figurehead, slicing the logs to crown the brigantine with a renewed figure.

As the _Iceberg_ is slowly crawling north, Oswald welcomes the familiar winds caressing his face.

  
His serenity is vexed by loudening yells and screams. Oswald opens his eyes and turns his head with a peaky-faced frown. The hatch is flipped: two pirates snap on the main deck, reaching below, dragging up a third man. They grab him by his wrists, twisting and squeezing tight. A fourth man appears, kicking the stranger from behind.

  
“You lousy little bilge rat!”

  
“Stowaway! We catched a stowaway!”

  
“Captain, this bastard dared to hide in-”

  
Oswald slams his palm on the barrier. He presses his lips together, tumbling down the stairs. They carry the man before him, forcing him on his knees. Oswald finds a familiar face within the pale features.

  
“Doctor,” he snaps, smirking. “You’re quite a sight for sore eyes.”

  
The man looks up at him, grinning, tousled hair sticking onto his forehead. His locks are gripped back by an aeruginous chenille. Blood is dripping from the corner of his mouth, sloppy. He looks beautifully humiliated on his knees, with shoulders twisted.

  
“Captain,” he breathes, squinting in the sunlight. “Shiver me timbers, ye look wonderful.”

  
Oswald growls and tilts his head. He sounds almost gentle.

  
“What a nice put-up show you dare to play.”

  
The crew quiets. They watch with breaths held, all petrified with curiosity and offense. Pirates hop from the ropes to the deck, locking the doctor up in a tight circle.

  
“May I ask what wind blows you here?”

  
The doctor tries to shrug but Oswald’s men don’t let him. He squints up at them, cold and hollow. The cruel glimpse flashes with amber lights. Oswald finds himself honoring it.

  
“I’m simply going to places,” he manages, finding Oswald’s eyes again with his. “It’s such a pity I missed the course. This is not the _Arabella_ , I believe.”

  
Oswald snickers.

  
“Your brazeness is beyond reproach, I give you that.”

  
The crew hisses. Someone roars: “Come to the halter, rat!”

  
The doctor’s features sharpen, disgust pouring from them. Oswald knits his brows.

  
“Pardon me?”

  
“I cannot bide the uncalled audience.”

  
“Am I sensing rage?”

  
“Prejudice. I would trust you to doom me with all my pleasure. But only you.”

  
“Your situation is non-negotiable I’m afraid. My crew belongs to me, just like this ship. I cannot make a decision without them. You have violated the _Iceberg_ ’s regulation, it is my duty to put your crime to the vote. You may defend yourself at a trial, of course, but under the circumstances you provided yourself with your attitude…,” Oswald tsks and leans closer to the doctor. “If I were you, I would pray to the Lord to have mercy on my bastard soul. I doubt we will pity your life.”

  
“I don’t believe in God.”

  
Oswald spreads his arms with a piteous pout.

  
“Hell is waiting for you, then. Lock him up! I’m terribly sorry, doctor. The hold’s cells may not be the most pleasant quarter you’ve ever dwelt in. I wish it would matter. Your life will come to the end at dawn.”

⚓

The sun dives behind the horizon, painting the sea with blood. Oswald has drawn in his cabin following the incident, enrolling the offense into the log. His crooked silhouette is covered in velvet lights and leady dim.

  
A pale stripling steps in, bringing him dinner. The salty smell of pork and potatoes fill the narrow chamber.

  
Oswald looks up, lewdly, lost in thought. His hazed glance catches the boy’s bandaged hand.

  
“What happened?,” he barks.

  
The boy gets frightened, staring down at himself vaguely. He trips like he lost his balance, mumbling shakily:

  
“T’was the lag, Captain. He bit me when I gave him the bread.”

  
Oswald’s coaly eyebrows arch. He leans back in his scarlet chair.

  
“He bit you,” he repeats, blankly.

  
The boy’s voice fades even more. His look quivers.

  
“He’s an evil creature, I tell you. Worse than a beast locked up in a cage. The bleeding won’t stop, like he cursed me, like his spit is poison and his eyes are-”

  
_Ambers_.

  
Oswald gestures, disbelieving smile on his lips.

  
“Nonsense. You can leave now.”

  
The boy is open-mouthed and motionless. Oswald would put him in his place, voice raspy, but something happens. The boy’s bones rumbles into one another, cracking and breaking. His skin is dry and grey as parchment, mouldering like his flesh. He’s twitching as he falls on the floor, spreading his arms, crumbling away like fire going out.

  
Oswald shouts for his guards. The cabin’s door snaps as it’s opened. The wind blows inside from the corridor, stirring the boy’s ashes into Oswald’s throat.

⚓

He shoots through the narrow corridor of the ship’s insides. The guards follow him with pistols and hatchets in hand. Oswald grabs a torch: it’s flickering and crackling, the flames seeming to tilt the damp walls.

  
Clacking invites him closer, echoing on the walls. When Oswald reaches the cell, the doctor’s already on his lanky legs, pressing his waist to the bars of the cell’s door.

  
Oswald spins in front of him. He reaches out to him between the bars, grabbing the doctor’s shirt. He shoves him close.

  
“What are you?” he hisses, staring into the blank eyes.

  
The doctor tilts his head. His clammy voice sticks the flames to the walls.

  
“ _A nightmare for some. For others, as a savior I come. My hands, cold and bleak, it’s the warm hearts they seek. What am I?_ ”

  
“The Devil.”

  
The doctor giggles.

  
“I’m honored, but you’re wrong. How is the dear lackey doing?”

  
“You ground his bones and sucked every single drop of blood out his veins. I want to know how.”

  
He shakes his head slightly. Oswald tightens his grip as the doctor runs his tongue through his lower lip.

  
“I’d be happy to answer you, but the time of my trial has come.” He presses his forehead to the cool bars. His breath is boiling on Oswald’s face. “Preciseness is my virtue, you know. I wouldn’t miss the facilities of my last dying wish, not for all the world.”

  
Oswald shoves him away. He’s panting with rage and waves to his two guards to open up the cell.

  
None of them move. Oswald growls:

  
“What are you waiting for, gentlemen? Bring him to me.”

  
The walls grow narrow around Oswald. His fingers intertwine his tawdry pistol. He gives them a last chance by shouting:

  
“Bring him to me, cowards!”

  
Ed starts laughing; his voice is harsh, choking, and rotund. Rage sparks through Oswald. He pulls his pistol out. Two fumy bullets, two drilled skulls, and the blood reeks. The ship shakes as the heavy bodies hit the floor with a thump.

  
Ed is still laughing.

  
Oswald is huffing, his temples weezing sweat. He stares at the doctor, whose bony fingers crawl on the bars, his glasses knock on them. His laughter fades into a wide grin.

  
“So,” he murmurs, “will you let me out?”

⚓

Scalding-hot riots sweep through the main board as the boatswain pulls the doctor up by his neck. Oswald is standing at a respectful range, in the bosom of his crew. The boatswain finds his way to Oswald’s right side, wind blows through his grizzled hair. On Oswald’s left, the one-eyed watchman is waiting patiently, his fingers entwined around his fleshless wrist.

  
The doctor is tied to the main mast. His spirit is mellow, his ferrety glance doesn’t leave Oswald. He dares to ask the gloomy lascar to draw the ropes tighter.

  
The sails rustle. The brigantine softly glides on frilled waves, her slender wooden body creaking and sighing. The air is still frowzy and burning, only the winds blow soothing kisses on the crew’s faces. Torches flare up in a circle. Their flames are locked up in a cage of steel.

  
Oswald can’t breathe. As he opens his mouth, salt coats his tongue.

  
“We all know what a nuisance we’re dealing with,” he starts in a rich voice. It still sounds a bit weak, but his crew calls for silence. “Our home is wrecked. A stranger has violated our laws and our boundaries. Someone who doesn’t respect our contract. Someone who cannot be our blood brother. He lurked behind barrels like a sneaky rat-”

  
The doctor clears his throat. Oswald’s glance slices through him like a blade.

  
“If I may-”

  
“You may speak when you are asked to. If you say another word I didn’t call for, I will slice your throat myself without even thinking about it.”

  
The crew roars with laughter. The _Iceberg_ ’s hull splashes back into the waves. The doctor puckers his lips with an offended grimace and raises his chin, but he stays quiet.

  
“It seems that good manners are not our friend’s greatest asset. All right, then. Butch, keep a record of everything you hear.”

  
The paymaster nods and sits down by the barrier. He is balancing the log on his meaty knees.

  
Oswald limps closer to the mast.

  
“What’s your name?”

  
“Edward Nygma.”

  
“Your occupational title?”

“Surgeon.”

“Where are you from?”

“From the sea.”

The wind turns.

  
Oswald opens his mouth and closes it. The doctor keeps smiling. It seems that the grousing wakener entertains him.

  
“Did you not expect this answer?”

  
“It doesn’t matter if you are a pirate or not. You didn’t acquit yourself yet. Who did you serve before?”

  
“I served you.”

  
“I allow no games from you.”

  
“I have proof. Our contract is in my pocket.”

 

“Take it out. Now.”

  
Ed raises his brows and moves his bound wrists. Oswald calls for a sailor but Ed bursts out:

  
“ _You_ take it out.”

  
It takes Oswald two steps to reach him. Oswald is staring into the dark eyes as he grabbles blindly, wearly. Ed’s aura is intoxicating as it’s pulsing through his skin. Ed bends, sinking his chin lower. They slick closer. Too close. His hair touches Oswald’s cheek. Oswald’s fingers search his pocket, his tips reaching something inside. He tears his hand out, stepping back.

  
He opens the parchment out, peeking down.

  
He almost drops it.

  
On the parchment, there’s nothing but four words freezing in blood.

  
_I know your secret_

  
He snaps his head up. Ed’s eyes are narrow, like the dark lobes of the Moon.

  
“Pass it over,” he whispers and Oswald crickles the parchment in his fist.

  
He’s hesitating. He has two choices; they flash through his muscles, tying him. If he doesn’t hand the doctor’s message over, if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he will never be trusted again as a captain.

  
It would be a sentence of death. He cannot allow that to happen. The doctor’s words might turn out to be a foolish hoax.

  
He doesn’t really have a choice.

  
He offers the parchment to the closest pirate. The boatswain takes it from his hand.

  
Ed is beaming at him. The sea’s roar throbs in Oswald’s ears, the hot sweat of the Bahamas lashes on his face. He’s waiting for Gabe to read the parchment, to say something, to tense.

  
“He’s telling the truth.”

  
A cold stream slaps Oswald.

  
“What did you say?!”

  
“He’s telling the truth. Look.”

  
Gabe heaves his hand and shows the parchment to everyone. The crew starts to grumble. They’re querying each other, talking the other down, elbowing the closest sailor. _Do you remember him? Have you seen him?_

  
As petrified moments crumble away, Ed’s face rises from their memories.

  
“I lose a fortune in play with him! That son of a bitch knows his cards.”

  
“Hey doc, how come you look so fine after being a drunken scallywag?”

  
“We danced, I tell you, why don’t you remember?”

  
“He stole Alice from me, that bastard. I’ve been dreaming about her since Kingston. That whore broke my heart.”

  
Oswald’s knees tremble. He feels weaker than ever, mouthing something like “fucking hell”. He straightens his spine, forcing himself to look up at Ed. His jaw tenses.

  
“Loose him,” he croaks.

  
Ed’s face is glowing with moonlight. Gabe cuts the ropes. Ed massages the reddish snake marks the ropes have left.

  
“Pass a sentence upon me,” he asks tenderly.

  
Oswald breathes out. And breathes in.

  
“All right. Let’s put up to vote. If you feel like the doctor is is an accepted member of the _Iceberg_ ’s crew, raise your hand now.”

  
Thirty hands rise up. Butch is counting them, shouting the upshot. Ed’s metallic eyes muster the ones who back down.

  
“It’s settled.” Oswald steals Ed’s glance for himself, stepping closer again with weakening knees. “I welcome you on board once again, Edward Nygma. Let me kidnap you for a minute before you join your fellows. Gabe, draw the barrels off! You deserve to celebrate, my friends. It was a long day. For all of us.”

  
The crew carols forth. The musicians tune up, barrels roll through the main deck. Oswald hacks their way through the swelling crowd. Ed is smartly stepping behind him, following his path to the corridor, to the captain’s cabin. He opens the door for Oswald and receives a snarly grin as a thank you.

  
Oswald lights the gaslamps one after the other. Ed is waiting patiently, standing before the packed table. He grabs an astrolabium from a mound of trinkets, swirling it between his bony fingers.

  
Oswald comes to a full circle without saying a word. Then, he sits down to his tricksy chair, crossing his legs, leaning his chin on his palm. He doesn’t look at Ed as he turns his wrist. His gesture says: have a seat.

  
Ed obeys. The lack of chairs make him sit on a gilded chest.

  
He speaks up first.

  
“I am at your command.”

  
Oswald snorts. He wrinkles his nose as he overcomes his pride and fury. He flashes a null smile. Their glances interweave again, like strings of a rope.

  
“We need to find you a position you can hold on. Freshen my memory, doctor. How did you sign on?”

  
“Why didn’t you kill me?”

  
His voice is playful, his eyes seem nacreous. The tip of Oswald’s tongue caress through his upper teeth. He raises his eyebrows contemplatively.

  
Ed goes on:

  
“Did you solve my riddle?”

  
“Answer my question.”

  
“What happens when you kill Death?”

  
Oswald smacks on the table. Ed’s lips are parted, his teeth clash. He’s waiting for Oswald to grind his words, but Oswald surprises him. He leans back comfortably, chuckling with puffy eyes.

  
The pop of his tongue is a whip. He grabs a bottle of cognac, pulling it out from the carved drawer. He takes two glasses from a silver plate. When he finally speaks, his voice waves with ease. He’s chattering.

  
“Why did you kill the boy?”

  
“It was a gift for you.”

  
“A call would’ve been enough.”

  
“Really?”

  
“You’ve been travelling with us for only a day, and you already have blood on your hands.”

  
“Just like you.”

  
Oswald’s glance lightens. The cognac gutters.

  
“They were unfaithful and coward. What mistake did the boy make?”

  
Ed shrugs. He gets on his feet, stepping closer to the table. He seats himself on it, stooping above Oswald.

  
“The crust was dry,” he hums. His fingers crawl on the glass. Oswald swallows and Ed’s face darkens. “You’re afraid of me. Don’t be.”

  
“I’ve seen worse.”

  
“Worse, not more mysterious.” Oswald tsks. “That’s what I thought. You’re not afraid of what you’ve already seen. You’re afraid of the unknown, like all people. The informations, you do not yet possess - they kept me alive. What would happen to your ship? What faith would wait for you? What happens when you kill Death?”

  
“I’ve faced Death,” Oswald hisses, standing up so he can lean into his face.

  
“And I’ve looked back at you.”

  
“You’re playing a game.”

  
“I’m playing with _you_. Please.” Ed lifts his glass, clinking it to Oswald’s. Oswald doesn’t reach for his own drink, but Ed is waiting for him.

  
Oswald takes a soft sip, Ed swigs. He dries the drops from the corner of his mouth, chaining Oswald’s eyes to his lips. He smirks.

  
“I’ve accepted you as my captain, Mr. Penguin. You can believe me. Give me orders. Rule me. Use me.”

  
Oswald twirls his glass. He drinks again, lewdly swinging the cognac and the thoughts in his mouth. Crystal knocks on the table.

  
“Are you a fine swordsman? Can you fire a gun?”

  
“I’m an excellent swordsman.”

  
Oswald’s crooked grin appears. He hobbles to the baldachin bed, unhanging a polished sword. He tosses it through the room. Ed grabs it by the grip with his mouth agape.

  
Oswald takes his own sword from his belt, leaning on his healthy leg.

  
He purrs:

  
“Show me.”

  
Ed is staring at him in astonishment, still, the corner of his mouth twitches. Heavy blades stiff ahead, then Oswald swiftly steps and smites to the doctor from above.

  
The swords sparke. Oswald is surprisingly quick, pulling and dragging his broken ankle behind. He never seems to loose balance. Ed is unable to do anything but shuffling off - sharpening the blade on blade, stepping back, luring Oswald further back.

  
He is backing to the windows, the hemicircle of the stern which is lit by fading beams of moonlight.

  
Then, he attacks.

  
Oswald’s muscles tense in his arm from Ed’s hits. He’s strong, fierce, rhythmical, and still vagarish. He moves like he’s asking Oswald to dance with him, to dance to a breathless beat, and Oswald flusters and makes a mistake.

  
His sword falls down. Ed’s blade is on his throat, his fingers on his wrist, pulling him close, turning him. He thrusts himself to him hard, hugging him by his chest. Oswald throws his head back to avoid the blade: his nape rests in the arc of Ed’s shoulder and neck. He snatches his pistol. He presses its cold barrel into Ed’s temple.

  
Ed moans. His embrace squeezes the breath out of Oswald’s lungs.

  
They tumble between the carmine curtains. The windows feel chilly. The lights glister. The noise of the main deck cannot reach them.

  
Oswald is panting and shivering in Ed’s arms. He doesn’t want to get out; it’s the rage of losing that makes him quiver. He clenches his teeth and growls quietly.

  
“Where did you learn that?”

  
“On the streets. I taught myself.”

  
“Remedy is a dangerous occupation,” Oswald spits with irony.

  
Ed quietly laughs into his ears. His glasses are pressed into Oswald’s cheeks as he caresses through his chest and abdomen, sinking his nails into his waist. Oswald hold his breath. His raised arm trembles; he blames it on the pistol’s weight.

  
“Discharge the surgeon. I’ll take his place. I saw in Nassau what that charlatan can do.”

  
“Right now I have more faith in a medicaster than in you. At least he commits a fault before he kills.”

  
Ed surrenders with a huff. He drops his sword and kicks it far. The sword glides to the end of the cabin with a clash.

  
Ed doesn’t let him go just yet. His abdomen sticks to his back, hot and heavy. His shirt is damped and crumpled, his heart beating rapidly under cloth and skin and flesh.

  
Their breath is rugged.

  
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Ed exhales. His grip wastes away.

 

“This is the last time you lied to me. Don’t you dare do it again.”

  
Ed lets him go and draws back. Oswald leans onto the window frame. He’s still pointing the pistol at him, the barrel casting a shadow at Ed’s face. Oswald’s pale nostrils falter.

  
“You’ll be Dr. Felton’s assistant. You’ll help him in everything, act only when ordered, speak only when asked. If you can prove yourself to me until we reach the continent, you can take his place. I expect you to be the a useful member of my crew. I count on you to keep a lookout, to eat with the crew, and to keep the ship clean. I’ll accommodate you in the hold. You will sleep in hammocks with the others. If you’ve got a problem, or something to say, you cannot tell me directly. You don’t ask for me if I don’t ask for you. Complain to the boatswain, he’ll pass it on to me. If you fail, I’ll degrade you immediately. Do you understand?”

  
Ed nods. Oswald doesn’t draw his arm back.

  
“I asked you a question. Did you understand?”

  
“I did, my Captain.”

  
Oswald pins the pistol back into his belt’s pouch. He limps back to the table for his cognac. Ed stays behind, grinding the curtain’s golden threads between his fingers.

  
Oswald swigs the drink, grabbing the table’s edge with his free hand. He doesn’t look back as he asks:

  
“What the hell are you still doing here?”

⚓

The cabin’s door squeaks when Ed leaves. Oswald’s all alone in the trembling light of the gaslamps, clinging to the bottle.

  
Back in time, when the brigantine squirmed in Fish Mooney’s steel grip, he was forced to join the late night debauches. The drunken crew bawled like a herd of cattles. The ghost stories only made Oswald creep because he wouldn’t believe people actually feared them. Mooney’s fault-finding musicians could’ve sang a better song with their tongues cut out. Fish never gave them anything to drink but fucking grog -

  
And those hammocks. He clung onto its ropes like his life depended on it.

  
When the ropes slued around his broken leg and made him fall, the pain usually made him faint. They found him in the morning, half-dead, drooling.

⚓

Oswald had drank the whole bottle. He presses his lips together, pondering, grabbing the bottle’s neck.

  
With a deranged heave, he smashes the bottle to the wall. Shreds disperse in the air like dozens of stars.

  
Oswald makes his decision. He hustles to his door, grabbing the knob. As he opens the door, the one-eyed watchguard looks back at him. He starts to act like a guardsman, although Oswald never asked him to be one.

  
Now, he’s in the right place, in the right time.

  
“Captain?”

  
Oswald points behind himself with his chin.

  
“Inside. Now.”

  
The man obeys and waits for Oswald to close the door and turn to him. Oswald raises his chin and squints at him.

  
“You will fuck me now,” he says, voice flat.

  
_Fuck the thought of him out of me. Make his scent fade. Make his voice stop. Make his touch numb_.

  
“Any questions?”

  
The watchguard steps closer. He grabs Oswald by the neck without saying a word, and bites into his lip.

  
Oswald closes his eyes.

  
On his eyelids, there’s amber.


	2. Dead-fire

The brigantine has been going with the tide for three days now, soft and quiet. They hold their course, north-westward, tilting smoothly onto the waves. By twilight, the Bahamas appeared plainly on the horizon. Oswald commanded his crew to reach the shores, to refill the barrels with fresh water.

 

In moments like this, the ship can put them at a disadvantage. Her storeroom is too cramped; they have to cast anchor, island by island, as they are voyaging upwards.

 

The twilight finds a berth. The gas lamps are staggering like fireflies. The pirates change guards. There are soft thumps as the riggers frisk down from the mains. The claret sunset is serene and sedulous.

 

Oswald is standing on the forecastle deck, prying his crew’s work. Up there, the winds are already chilly, unlike his cabin’s overheated haze. Oswald swallows down the air. His eyes feel veiled as he stares down.

 

Weeks ago, everything he can see was Fish Mooney’s empire. Weeks ago, he’d only just begun planning the raid, wishing for her scream, wishing for the _splash_ as her lifeless body was consumed by the foamy waves.

 

He chuckles quietly. A cast shadow darkens the rail.

 

He turns around with knocking heels. The master gunner is staring at him, stiffly. He’s wearing all black, his skin is sallow and waxy in the lights.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“We need to talk about the doctor, Captain,” he sings, stepping next to Oswald.

 

He leans on the railing, a lantern in hand. It’s swinging over the sea. Attached to his belt, the armory’s lead keys are clattering.

 

“Keeping him aboard was very wrong of us. I’ve talked to the crew about him. They’re not happy.”

 

“Oh really?,” Oswald’s tongue is coated with sarcasm. “That’s remarkable. If my memory serves me right, it was you who spared his wretched life. If it was up to me, his fatless meat would be torn by sharks by now, and the denuded bones would float back to Nassau.”

 

“It’s a hellish plight,” the master gunner goes on, passing by Oswald’s comment. His voice is raspy and dreamy. “None of them remembers the voting.”

 

Oswald’s stomach is sinking.

 

“Don’t blame your delusions on curses.”

 

“Strange things are happening on this ship.”

 

Oswald turns to him. His shrill glance slits through the master gunner. The man doesn’t bat an eyelash.

 

“You godforsaken bastards,” he hisses into his face. “Your beliefs drive me out of my mind. Do you want ghost stories? Amuse yourselves at night, sucking on pipes, but get that nonsense out of your imagination by dawn. If a brat dares to get sick of fear because you stuffed his head with fairy tales, I swear you will all hang from the main mast. Maybe I’ll set your corpses on fire too, just to be sure.”

 

“All  secrets will be out,” the master gunner says slowly. “One way or another.”

 

“Then we wait until the ship shoots up in the sky and demons crawl out of the hold to suck our souls out of our blood,” Oswald slurs sourly, grinding his teeth. “Till then, I believe, everything is. All. Right.”

 

The master gunner grins.

 

“Don’t you believe in evil?”

 

“I don’t believe evil has nestled inside the ship, Mr. Zsasz. Most of all, I don’t believe it resides in a spindly, spectacle-eyed son of a bitch who doesn’t even know how to knot a bowline!” Oswald raises his voice, staring back at eavesdropping sailors who had crept closer to them, whispering. “Shut your mouths and get back to work! If another demented myth gets abroad, every taleteller will be left on the next island without a guinea. If you should be in dread of anything, my friends, then fear me - there’s no ghost haunting this ship that’s more cruel than me.”

 

The master gunner’s grin slowly freezes into a grimace. Oswald leaves him alone, tumbling down the narrow stairs with twisted features.

 

Zsasz shouts after him languidly:

 

“Where is Leonard?”

 

Oswald doesn’t look back.

 

“Who?”

 

“The cook’s lackey. Where is the lackey, Captain?”

 

⚓

 

Oswald is followed by yellow looks as he hurries through the deck. He is spinning his cabin’s key between his fingers.

 

The one-eyed watchguard is swinging his legs, above him, sitting on the quarterdeck. He is  stretching his legs through the rail’s bars. He looks down at him with questioning yearning. Oswald shakes his head. The man nods, enlacing his ankles.

 

Oswald steps into the corridor, into the circlet of quivering flames.

 

As he opens his cabin’s door, he stops with a gasp. He grabs his sword quickly. The blade slicks out with a hiss: a sleepy giggle responds to it.

 

The shadowy figure in his bed nuzzles deeper into the eiderdown, mumbling softly:

 

“You don’t need that, my Captain.”

 

Oswald’s throat dries. He rushes closer with the sword in his hand. He leans over Ed, pushing the blade’s tip into the bed frame, right next to Ed’s head. The grip is waggling and Oswald grabs it.

 

“To what do I owe your little visit, Ed?,” he spits quietly, bending his spine deeper. His teeth are burning in the dim lights.

 

“Do you know how rubbish those hammocks are to sleep in? I yearn for silk pillows and covers, not for those insufferable ropes.”

 

“How did you get in?”

 

Ed raises his eyebrows like he’d think Oswald’s question is derision. He points behind himself mutely, to the open porthole.

 

Oswald stares at him blankly.

 

“You’re a moron.”

 

“And to top it all, worn-out.”

 

“You broke into my cabin. You’re lying in my bed. Do you even know what to expect?”

 

“A pleasant night?”

 

Oswald snarls.

 

“I should rip the skin off your back with the cat o’nine.”

 

“Please. Could you wake me up when you start? I’d be very grateful.”

 

Before Oswald can say a word, the doctor turns to his side with unbearable complacency. A victorious, faint smile is still glowing on his lips.

 

Oswald is glaring at him in disbelief, the tip of his tongue pinched between his teeth.

 

The night is closing in with deepening shadows and vibrating heat. The beams of moonlight embrace Oswald’s crooked figure.

 

He tears the blade out of the frame. He puts it down, carefully, like he wouldn’t want to disturb Ed. He unbuckles his heavy leather belt. His weapons clink together. Ed’s eyelashes flinch and Oswald’s hook-like grin flares.

 

Oswald gently touches Ed’s shoulder, turning him over, crawling onto his lap with a prudish pout.

 

Ed’s eyes shoot open. He parts his lips, moaning softly.

 

“ _Shh_ ,” Oswald breathes, pressing his hands to Ed’s chest.

 

Ed’s groin flames up as Oswald thrusts their bodies together. The silence is hollow: Oswald hears Ed’s every wet gasp, the rustle of his locks as he peeks up at him.

 

Oswald whispers lewdly:

 

“I regret to say that if you stay, it is no part of my intentions to let you sleep in peace.”

 

Ed’s chest heaves under his palms. Oswald’s slack fingers play with the buttons of Ed’s shirt. He curls his lips with pity.

 

“You poor thing. You don’t wish for another sleepless night, do you? Dear me, is it not good enough for you?”

 

Ed pushes himself up fiercely. His right hand grabs Oswald by his hair, shoving him close, forcing him to throw his head back. Ed bites into him hard, sinking his icy teeth under his skin. Ed’s free hand scratches down his back, grabbing his arse.

 

Oswald cries out, trembling. His moans are breathless and husky. He deepens his splintery nails into Ed’s shoulders.

 

Ed starts kissing and licking the torn skin. The tip of his nose is pressed to Oswald’s throat. Ed’s tongue and harsh lips bring him relief; Oswald is circling his hips, grinding on Ed desperately.

 

Ed’s steamy sigh is pulsing in Oswald’s ears as he hugs his neck, arousing, roughing him up, murmuring his name over and over.

 

Ed draws back, looking him deep in the eye. The mahogany irises are glowing, Ed’s trembling breath is pouring down on Oswald’s throat.

 

Ed leans in to capture his lips. Oswald can finally press his fingers to Ed’s lips to shove him back with a violent push. Ed’s back falls between the pillows as Oswald covers his mouth with his palm.

 

Oswald’s features are numb, inscrutable. Ed’s glance is shattering into pieces before his very eyes. His defeat is the sweetest thing Oswald has ever tasted.

 

“That’s enough.” His voice is raspy and rigid. He doesn’t draw his hand back yet. “Listen to me very carefully. If I ever see you lurking around my cabin again without permission, do not count on my mercifulness. I’m not willing to give you any more chances. Do as ordered or leave - dead or alive. I hope you know which one I’d prefer.”

 

Oswald smiles tenderly and tilts his head. He purrs again as he speaks:

 

“This night is the only thing I’m grateful for. You finally threw your mask off, exposed yourself for me. Thank you, Ed.”

 

Oswald climbs out of the bed, wobbling to the windows. He peeks behind above his shoulder, catching Ed’s dark and luring eyes.

 

Oswald chuckles.

 

“What are you waiting for, my friend? Leave. The same way you broke in.” He heaves to the porthole. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 

Ed’s features smoothe in a blink of an eye. Oswald tries to hide his abashment. Ed jumps out of the bed with reassurance. He crosses paths with Oswald, trippingly. He peeps at him for a minute, intensely, but he doesn’t stop.

 

“Not at all,” he chatters, grabbing the porthole’s rim. He sticks one leg out, swinging over the sea. “Sweet dreams, my Captain.”

 

Oswald doesn’t reply. He’s finally alone in the hungry dark that keeps devouring the cabin’s walls. He limps back to the door, locking himself inside. The key seems to touch his skin cold and hot and the same time.

 

He should’ve won. His victory should be ideal. His blood shouldn’t boil in his veins, queasy sweat shouldn’t stick this shirt to his back, his cheeks shouldn’t burn with feverish blush. The throbbing agony in his flesh that shakes and bursts his pelvic bone grows beyond endurance with every passing minute.

 

He got to know Ed’s weakness, but the weapon Oswald could use to destroy him is slipping through his fingers.

 

Ed has dispossessed him of his own self-control.

 

He kissed it away.

 

He wound it ‘round his finger and Oswald hadn’t even noticed.

 

And now, Ed is responsible for him.

 

For this.

 

For everything.

 

⚓

 

The Sun is hovering high on the span-clean sky by the time Oswald creeps out of his cabin. He blinks up at the plopping sails with swollen eyes. He is hurt by the light and the hazy air.

 

The fuzzy-haired lookout is springing past him, turning her head back to greet him. The voice cuts into Oswald’s skull like lightning. He just growls in return, grabbing the spider web of ropes next to him as the brigantine slowly turns left.

 

Oswald’s dizzy like he’s having a feverish hangover. Yester night, he only got drunk on Ed’s lips, already yearning for more.

 

He couldn’t sleep a wink; he just flounced on the cool  velvet duvet, naked and feverish. The silver moonlight broke through the curtains, its beams, like sharp claws, gouged his eyes.

 

He totters to the rail, his spine bends. He leans over deep, throwing up. He’s retching and trembling like he’d vomit his guts out. Shouted calls rip into his brain, each of them a whiplash. He closes his eyes, tight, to shut everything out because everything is alien: the spray of the sea on his face, the fingers that claw into his flesh, the palm that strokes his hair out of his forehead, the arms that are lifting him up now. The deck slips away from his feet, before him, there’s the sky - how did that happen? Is the world spinning, did the clouds dive, claiming him to themselves?

 

Someone is dragging him to Fenton’s cabin. He’s not there, that son of a bitch, because a boy fell earlier that night, fell from the gaff like he was pushed without hands, shot without a pistol, and Oswald needs to laugh because the boy is already dead and he doesn’t even know.

 

Someone peeks at him, panic deep in the single eye. Oswald is laughing even harder. The sounds are blunt, muffled at the edge of his mind.

 

Two tones, words are filmy, their strengths lax. A leaning face, torn and vibrant, new features come to focus, pale and sharp. The moonlight of the night. It makes Oswald choke on seawater. His limbs are stretched out. He’s floundering in chains of hands, he feels his own hysteria, swallowing back his own lunacy.

 

There’s nothing but his pounding heart, his drawn out breath, his whimpering: no, no, no.

 

Light of a mirror flashes through the glasses. The tip of a needle is pressed against the arc of his arm and he tries to push himself up, his spine curved, his head thrown back, he is begging in a screaming voice.

 

And then he wakes. He is shivering, mumbling a raw mantra:

 

“ _He cursed me, he cursed me, he cursed me, he cursed me-_ ”

 

Everything is dimming and dripping, like oil paint on a canvas. Someone is howling, someone who’s not him, he’s finally unable to hear his own voice and he wants to laugh again because everyone’s telling the truth but nobody knows it, and it’s fucking ridiculous.

 

“ _He cursed me, he cursed-_ ”

 

Silence wraps him in a shroud.

 

⚓

 

Evanescence is only a dream.

 

He can walk again, his ankle is cicatrized with a sharp and loathsome crunch. Oswald is moving it, staring at it. He steps on it and his leg splays.

 

He cannot walk with a healthy ankle anymore.

 

He looks around.

 

Reality is a misshapen still-life. It’s suffocating and empty. Oswald is tearing his vest and shirt, ripping them with nails and scraped flesh. He’s looking for marks, brands. Eschars of his past and seals of his future. He finds nothing, just pure skin, glowing in the dark.

 

He drops on his knees but he cannot land. He would float, still, he’s falling.

 

He hits his ankle with shaking fists, smiting at himself again, and again, and again. He wants back the hatred, the sin, the torture, because he can’t live with that, he can’t live in hungry  solitude and dead-fire.

 

His hand is not enough to break his bones again.

 

Then, he remembers.

 

His hatchet is still with him, hanging on his leather belt.

 

He simply has to draw it out. To clench his fingers around the grip. To take a deep breath.

 

With the hatchet, he can finally clash his flesh to pulp, tear his nerves apart, nebulizing his bones. There are wet snaps and boiling blood, rippling upwards, flowing inside Oswald’s nose and eyes, burning and tasting like whiskey.

 

He feels a kiss on his forehead, a kiss breathed by ghost lips. His hatchet falls out of his hand as he’s embraced by backwash.

 

He wants to scream: _Show yourself!_ , words are rustling on the tip of his tongue. He coughs blood.

 

Then, he hears his voice:

 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

⚓

 

The dream spits him out. He gasps for air and hold as he resurrects. His chest is heaving, his scapulas hit the crude mattress. He feels the bed’s steel teeth on his vertebrae.

 

He’s alive. He’s not bleeding out. The sky is still above him.

 

Felton’s cabin reeks. Oswald realizes that it’s his fault: his crumpled shirt is sweaty and he’s left stains on the duvet. He threw up again in his sleep, because the air is pungent and bitter, and his tongue feels dirty.

 

Next to him, by the bed, there’s a steel bucket filled with unclear water.

 

He croaks:

 

“Water.”

 

Someone offers him a leather bottle. His eyes are not hidden behind glass and strings of metal, his silhouette is thick. Oswald feels reassured. He lets the man to hug his back and help him sit up, lifting the bottle’s mouth to his.

 

He takes ravenous sips and moans as the hand draws back.

 

“Take it easy,” the man whispers and Oswald closes his eyes.

 

“How long…?”

 

“You were unconscious for over a whole day. How are you feeling?”

 

“Splendid. Is it nighttime?”

 

“Captain-”

 

“My fever has passed, right?”

 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you after the fight. You were rambling in your sleep. You said something about being cursed and hurt.”

 

 

Oswald slowly blinks. He reaches out for the leather bottle, tearing it out the boatswain’s hand. He drinks with an offended pout. He clears his throat.

 

“What kind of fight?”

 

“It was Nygma and Hawk. Hawk came at him after Nygma took care of you. I’ve suspended both of them according to your regulation.”

 

“Where are we now?”

 

“Joulter Cays. We landed yesterday. We’ve been waiting for you to recover.”

 

“So the ship is hanging,” Oswald swallows, tasting his last question in his mouth. His voice echoes as he asks: “You locked them up, you say?”

 

Gabe nods.

 

“Let them out. Both of them. Send Nygma to me.”

 

Gabe opens his mouth to protest. Oswald snaps:

 

“Do as I say.”

 

“Dr. Felton would-”

 

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Felton. Call Nygma. Now.”

 

Gabe obeys, stepping to the door. Oswald stops him one last time.

 

“Gabe.”

 

“Yes, Captain?”

 

“Don’t come back with him.”

 

⚓

 

Bruises and scars have turned Ed Nygma’s face red, they are glowing like clouds of the twilight. His left cheek is swollen, pulsing. His lip’s meat is cracked, blood dripping from it.

 

Oswald invites him closer with a jolly smile. He’s amused by Ed’s gaunt features.

 

Ed sits down.

 

“How are you feeling?,” he mutters, barely moving his stinging lip.

 

“You tell me, doctor. How should I feel?”

 

Ed reaches out to him, stopping. He whispers:

 

“May I?”

 

“I expect you to.”

 

Vague fingers are caressing through his forehead, sliding under his hair. Ed’s palm is cool and dry, smelling of the leady scent of the cells. He leans close, sticking his forehead to Oswald’s.

 

He breathes onto his lips:

 

“Your fever is gone.”

 

“You’re a fraud,” Oswald mumbles. His smile fades. “Tell me. How much time do I have left?”

 

Ed draws back.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You poisoned me, didn’t you?”

 

“I most certainly did not.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

Ed’s lips part with a shiver, his teeth clash. Oswald squints, distrustfully, making Ed’s breath flush.

 

“Is that what you think of me?”

 

“How did you do it? The shot?”

 

“I gave you morphine, nothing else.”

 

“You gave me kisses. Aren’t those lips poisonous?”

 

Ed’s words run dry. He touches Oswald’s shoulder with crooked fingers, stroking him tenderly. Oswald knits his eyebrows and Ed begs of him:

 

“Why don’t you believe in me?”

 

“You defeated me. You don’t have to treat me like an idiot.”

 

“Mr. Penguin-”

 

“Shut up. Shut your mouth. Please.”

 

Ed suddenly hisses:

 

“No.”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

Ed starts from the chair, kicking it over with his boot’s heel. Oswald is startled by the noise. As Ed’s sharp voice cuts through the cabin, the air inside Oswald’s lungs starts to freshen.

 

“I cannot keep quiet. It is you who’s poisoning me with unbelieving words, with denying my kiss and playing cruel games. Refuse my heart but not my helping hand, because I’m the only one who can save you, the one who can rule you and own you. You have no idea what I would do to keep you safe while you’re only accusing me of the things you do, pushing me away constantly. You have no right to tell me to shut my mouth if you can’t do that as well.”

 

Ed’s rage shivers through his spine. Oswald wets his dry lips, staring at him blankly. As shared moments lengthen between them, the cabin’s walls seem to collapse. Ed is backing away, and it feels like he’s closing in.

 

Ed opens the door, and Oswald stops him.

 

“Escort me to my cabin.”

 

Oswald shoves the covers away. Ed scoffs, not looking back.

 

“I thought I wasn’t competent in helping you.”

 

“You’re not. But I want you to stay with me.”

 

Ed’s features settle as he turns back. Oswald tilts his head, arching his eyebrows.

 

“So?”

 

Ed comes back to him with clipped steps, reaching his hand out. Oswald takes it. Their skin sticks together, hot and tight. Ed pulls him up, hugging him close. Oswald sinks his nails into Ed’s waist, leaning on him with a light head. He gasps as he turns giddy, clenching his fist tighter around Ed’s shirt.

 

Ed whispers into his hair:

 

“Excuse me.”

 

And gently picks him up.

 

⚓

 

The walls of the cabin are sparking with sealight. Oswald is standing in front of the windows, above a tiny, glazed wash-bowl. He leans into the water with damp forehead, kneading the water onto his skin.

 

Ed is waiting for him. Oswald can feel his flaming glance, leaving goosebumps all over Oswald’s back and ass.

 

Oswald hauls up his face with held breath. Ed steps closer, drying him with a towel. His touch is too gentle, almost bashful. Oswald smoothes his knuckles with his fingertips, making Ed twitch.

 

“Give me that,” he says, pointing away.

 

Ed gives him a fragrant paste. Oswald dips his finger into it, smearing it on his teeth. He sips rose-water next, gaping, letting the water pouring back into the wash-bowl.

 

He’s still shaky, grabbing the table’s side with weak fingers. He’s slightly panting.

 

Ed’s fingers tap on his waist, caressing him. He doesn’t ask if he’s alright, just making sure he is feeling better from his touch. Oswald straightens his back, melting into Ed’s touch, drying his teeth with a piece of cloth.

 

His mouth finally tastes like peach instead of vomit.

 

“Bring me new clothes.”

 

Ed tamely hurries to the chest by the baldachin bed’s end, hanging the towel on a steel hook on his way. Oswald’s glance is following him opening the chest and pulling out his night robe.

 

“I said clothes.”

 

“You need to rest.”

 

Oswald smirks.

 

“I’ve slept through a whole day. Bring me a shirt and a coat. We’re going to the shore.”

 

Ed would very much disagree with him, Oswald can see that. He manages to keep quiet, swallowing back his words.

 

Oswald turns back, facing the windows as he takes his damp clothes off. As he throws his shirt away, exposing his skin, he can hear Ed’s loud gasp.

 

Oswald peeks at him over his shoulder. Ed steps behind him, his observing glance flashing through him, scar by scar.

 

“Stop staring.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Oswald’s crooked grin glistens. He lifts his arm challengingly, and Ed slips the wispy, ruffled shirt around him. The lacy silk sticks to Oswald’s skin, cold and liberating.

 

Ed presses his body against his from behind and rests his jaw on Oswald’s shoulder. His bony fingers hide the cut humps of Oswald’s skin and flesh as he buttons the shirt up.

 

“I made a mistake,” Oswald finally grumbles. Ed hums, and hugs him tight as he’s finished dressing him. He’s rocking him softly. Oswald continues: “My last captain did that to me. I was keelhauled. Do you know what that means?”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“They tied me up and pushed me into the sea. They hauled me underneath the ship. There are plenty of shells and corals and chips of wood, all sharp like needle points. I was skinned alive as they hitched my flesh like hooks. The salt of seawater, the length of fifty feet is unbearably torturing. You will either drown or bleed out.”

 

“But you survived,” Ed sighs in enchantment.

 

“Hardly.” Oswald stares down at his crooked leg, moving it. He chuckles. “I got stuck at some point. As they tore me out once again, my leg broke. I don’t know what got me. I kept my eyes shut the whole time. They pulled me up and spit me into the hold, just like I did to you. I was nothing but a bleeding, breathing shred of meat, a mauled animal.”

 

Oswald turns to the side to look deep into Ed’s eyes, peering up at him with burning irises.

 

“I refused to die. No one can ever kill me. I’ve told you already: I have faced my fate.”

 

Ed breathes:

 

“You’re doing it even now.”

 

Oswald leans closer, biting into Ed’s lower lip. As they catch a breath, Oswald pulls Ed down by the arms entwined around his waist, kissing him deep and rough.

 

Oswald opens his mouth, promising and demanding. Ed’s tongue feels sweet and luring in his mouth, like drops of pruned sugarcane.

 

Oswald turns towards him, moaning wistfully. Ed’s hands are on his hip, in his hair, buried deep as nails scratch his scalp. He is grinding closer, crinkling Oswald’s shirt up so he can stroke his skin. The tip of Oswald’s nose is pressed against Ed’s glasses, pushing them up. Ed snatches them with an irritated grumble, and throws them on the table.

 

Oswald’s grin is smudged on Ed’s teeth. He kisses him again and again, yearning for more, more of his blessing and desire. He cups Ed’s cheek with one hand, gashing his bruises.

 

Ed moans, loud, and Oswald draws off.

 

He is out of breath.

 

“Take me to the shore.”

 

⚓

 

Oswald is cradled softly by Ed in the longboat. The slumbery sea is quiet, dotted with glinting stars. The rowers’ smooth splashing is drowsing Oswald.

 

He looks up at the sky to follow the paths of the stars. His neck tightens, the light brings tears to his eyes.

 

Ed hops out of the longboat when the sea gets ankle-deep. He grabs its side, hauling it to the shore next to the other one. Oswald steps out of it, not taking Ed’s offered hand.

 

The campfire’s heat slaps him. Most of the crew has already retired under the palm trees, sheltered from the rising tide. Around the fire, five sailors are sitting in a circle, their low voices sound like whispering.

 

When they see Oswald, they raise their hats, cheering up. Gabe hurries to him.

 

“Captain. Were you able to smooth the quarrel?” He looks Ed up and down. “Have you met Mr. Hawk?”

 

“I haven’t.” They’d met some guards back on the brigantine, none of them was the one-eyed. “Isn’t he on the shore?”

 

“I’m afraid he’s not.”

 

Oswald casts away the suspicion and the boatswain alike.

 

“If you see him, inform him about his appointment. I’m expecting him to show up at my cabin tomorrow, around noon. Now, if you excuse us, I’d like to rest.”

 

He limps to the bonfire, followed by Ed’s shadow. The sailors make them space. They sit next to each other.

 

A bottle of rum is passed around. It reaches Oswald as soon as he sits down.

 

“Here’s to you,” he says, swigging from the bottle.

 

He dries his mouth with his hand, giving the bottle to Ed. Ed only takes a small sip.

 

Oswald breathes in the smoky, lukewarm air. He feels like his head is finally clearing up. The knot of his thoughts is slowly unraveling, string by string. He doesn’t feel the terror anymore; it melts, dripping into the sand.

 

The sailors start chattering again. Oswald listens to them with one ear only. Ancient tales form from the smoke and the ashes, someone snickers and someone lights a pipe, the spicy smell of the tobacco is twirled by the wind.

 

They love talking about their past, wishing their stories to transform into the same myths they are dying to hear. They don’t want to remember anything but the wealth and love, the chance. Their adventures are dangerous and they can stay immortal.

 

One of the young lads lowers his voice, drawing Oswald’s attention.

 

“...they say that the Devil nestled himself into the galleon.”

 

Oswald rolls his eyes, snorting. The lad looks at him, offended, but the smoking veteran cuts in:

 

“The _Saint Dumas_ has her own Devil, and his name is Theo Galavan.”

 

The lad leans closer to the veteran, his features are devoured by the flames.

 

“Did you serve him?”

 

“Take my word for it. That damned son of a bitch sold his soul to enchain every ship’s destiny to himself. If the Devil paid a visit to _Saint Dumas_ one fine day, he would scuttle away, panic deep in those reddish eyes. He wouldn’t bear the horror.”

 

They burst out with laughter - except for the shivering lad.

 

“What did he chain to himself? How did he sell his soul?”

 

The veteran squidges on his pipe, playing for time. The taut attention feeds his vanity. When he speaks up again, his voice is coarse, like grinding planks and cracking fire.

 

“If he stands to lose, he calls it out from deep below. That godforsaken beast obeys his naked words. It circles around _Saint Dumas_ , unceasingly, waiting for his command. He pulls the ships down, under the waves, and before you know it, your ship is driftwood and its tentacles are sucking every drop of blood out of your veins. The beast looked into Galavan’s eyes, they say, and the curse turned, ‘cause Galavan has a soul darker than any daemon’s.” He turns to the lad, who’s already shivering, tiny teeth clashing in his mouth. “Kraken, boy. The Kraken’s spirit lives inside of him.”

 

The wind turns and cools down, dancing with the flames. Silence wraps the crew. Oswald opens his mouth to breathe away the ghosts of the tales.

 

The redhead gunner chimes in:

 

“We just need the Leviathan, for the Lord’s sake,” she snaps, slapping the lad in the back. “You know what that is? You know what it can do, that gargantuan beast? Have ye seen its eyes?” She curves her fingers to form two circle-shapes, and she holds them to her eyes. “They glow like the Moon, peeking at them makes you go blind.”

 

“You’re wrong.”

 

Ed cut in, leaning onto his knees, entwining his fingers. Oswald stares at his profile, then slips down him, to his fingers: his knuckles are white as the lad’s face, but statuelike and gritty.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Your legends are false, miss.”

 

“You callin’ me a liar, mate?”

 

“Not at all. From time to time, we cannot believe our eyes. They’re such delusive senses, cheating us, deceiving us. I know what you saw, therefore I know that you’re wrong. Fear is capable of many things, and the legend lives on, staling with every word you say.”

 

“It’s like you saw it too,” says the lad, squinting up at Ed.

 

Ed’s mouth seems a slit as he grins in the orange light.

 

“I’ve never seen it before. Not eye to eye.”

 

The gunner drinks from the bottle, showing her teeth.

 

“What’s with the big mouth, then?”

 

Oswald takes a deep breath, putting his hands up.

 

“That’s enough, my friends. You are bickering about nonsense. There are countless legends, and they are all telling you the same. Sea monsters, demon captains, Flying Dutchman’s, please. The doctor is pulling your leg, and you’re giving him attention like he wouldn’t be prideful enough. If you keep feeding him, he’ll stay smug-faced for our time being, driving us all mad.”

 

The sailors howl, enjoying Ed’s defeat. Ed pouts huffily.

 

Oswald shrugs.

 

“See? He doesn’t know what to say. Don’t believe anything that leaves his mouth. He’s playing with you.”

 

The sailors keep teasing Ed. The veteran offers the lad the last drops of rum. The flames are shimmering and shivering. The crew slowly spreads to find shelter against the cold night.

 

Soon, the only sound is the crew’s snoring and the fire’s crackling.

 

Only the two of them remain behind, staring into the flames. Ed hadn’t said a word since Oswald raised his voice against him.

 

Now, he grumbles:

 

“That was uncalled for.”

 

Oswald tsks.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re still sulking.”

 

“I’m not sulking. I’m offended by your words, my Captain.”

 

“Unlike a certain someone, I only told them the truth.”

 

Ed shakes his head slightly.

 

“I told the truth as well.”

 

Oswald sighs, adjusting his deep purple coat. He crosses his arm behind the coat’s wrapping.

 

“Why do you even care? Those are mere myths. There are no truths and lies.”

 

Ed’s face swiftly lightens up. His change of attitude catches Oswald off guard. Ed turns to him with flaming eyes and a deadish grin.

 

“Don’t tell me the dear Captain truly doesn’t believe in them. That is amazing!” Ed starts giggling, tilting his head. “That is truly amazing.”

 

Oswald flares up:

 

“You have no idea what I think about the unknown.”

 

Ed forces his wide grin to turn into a curious and flaunty smile.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Look at you. You were sulking like a brat just a moment ago, and now you want answers?” Oswald peeks behind Ed before slipping closer. He grabs Ed’s jaw, whispering: “Let’s start with you, then. Why did you threaten me?”

 

“‘Threaten you’?,” Ed asks, blinking rapidly. “When did I…?”

 

“The writing on the parchment. You made the others believe it was our contract, but not me. Wasn’t that witchcraft just like the Kraken?” Ed opens his mouth and Oswald sinks his nails deeper into his cheeks, making him unable to speak. Oswald sings: “You have threatened me, my dear. Tell me why.”

 

He lets him go, but doesn’t draw back. They’re still a breath apart as Ed is gaping and manages to say:

 

“Did you see a threat on the parchment?”

 

“That’s what it was. Explain yourself.”

 

“It was not me. You threatened yourself.”

 

“What the hell are you-”

 

“The parchment shows what you expect the most, deep in your heart and mind. You expected me to be violent and hostile-”

 

“Well I wasn’t wrong.”

 

Ed goes on, louder and quicker:

 

“So you made yourself believe that I have, indeed, threatened you.”

 

“Do you expect me to believe you?”

 

“I’m telling the truth. The crew wanted me to be one of them, to save them the trouble. I knew that, and I said it was my contract. They wished to see what I had told them.”

 

“Except the ones who figured out your trick and voted against your life.” Oswald squints. “You actually had the nerve to manipulate each and every one of my crew.”

 

“Isn’t it what you do?”

 

Oswald stares at him with mouth agape. He wishes that his words would slice into Ed, but when he finally speaks, his voice is remarkably tender:

 

“How dare you?”

 

Before Ed could say a word, Oswald kisses him. It’s just a little peck on the lips, quick and unsatisfying. Ed licks his lips, hugging Oswald’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace.

 

He kisses into the coaly, flocky hair.

 

“May I bring you back to your cabin?”

 

Oswald closes his eyes.

 

“Yes.”

 

⚓

 

He gets weaker with every tumbling step he takes. Ed is going around to blow out the lights while Oswald takes his clothes off and slips under the silk covers with clenching teeth.

 

Oswald is watching how Ed’s licked fingers destroy the tiny stars. The darkness finds its way to Oswald’s mind at first. The terrifying memories of his feverish nightmare crawl back to him.

 

He pulls the covers up to his chin. His shivering sounds like the drizzling rain that is hitting the windows with fat drops.

 

Ed reaches the last candle.

 

Oswald tries to focus on his own breath, his tightening muscles. Soon, Ed will leave him and he can perish in the dark.

 

A soft voice slices through the silence. Ed starts singing an old melody that sounds familiar and strange at the same time. His voice is raspy and weak, getting stronger with every moment passing by.

 

The wooden floor squeaks. Ed comes closer, sitting on the bed next to Oswald. He keeps singing.

 

Oswald can’t force himself to put him in his place. Ed’s voice sedates him, seduces him. He wishes he would have enough strength to speak: to offer him his bed and thighs and life, but the charm doesn’t let him.

 

His eyelashes flutter one more time before he closes his eyes.

 

At some point, he falls asleep. Minutes could’ve crumbled away, hours even. Maybe it’s already dawn, maybe it’s the end of all time.

 

Ed’s voice is leading him on,

 

never leaving him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> Stay tuned for Chapter 3.


	3. Nightcrawlers

He is sipping bitter wine from a crystal glass, twirling it in his mouth, swallowing lazily. The fancy table is cluttered as always: there’s a huge pile of books and parchments, golden candlesticks, wine sparkling in its glass, compassess, scrolls of maps.

 

Ed and Hawk are standing in front of him, mute and motionless. Their slender figures are straightened up, muscles tightened. They are staring vacantly through the windows.

 

Oswald sips again, playing out time, needling them both with his silence. He leans back softly, legs spread, sloshing the wine in the glass. The light breaks on the curvy crystal, making Ed squint.

 

“Will you have a glass of wine, gentlemen? No? You don’t know what you’re missing.”

 

The two men clasp their hands, squirming. Hawk holds his wrist with entwined fingers. Ed tilts his scrawny torso ahead; he almost bows to politely decline Oswald’s offer.

 

Oswald sniffs and breathes in, sliding the glass on the table. He is eyeing them both with a frown.

 

He hisses:

 

“I have to admit, you’ve both looked more valiant before. Out with it. Who would like to start? I haven’t carved your tongues out yet, I recommend you parlay your luck. Mr. Hawk? Would you mind telling me what happened after I had been narcotized by Dr. Nygma?”

 

Hawk points his jaw up. As he speaks, his clanging voice fades into a velvety whisper.

 

“I attacked him,” he declares with clenched teeth.

 

“Great. Such progress we’re making. Would you explain to me, on what count?”

 

“You, Captain, screamed that you were cursed by him. I hauled him up for it-”

 

“Fair and softly, I suppose.”

 

Ed cuts in, offended:

 

“If only.”

 

“You weren’t asked to speak.”

 

“He is telling the truth. I yelled at him. I wanted answers.”

 

“How did he respond?”

 

“He disavowed my every accusation.”

 

“Did you find any kind of evidence that supports your complaint against Dr. Nygma’s trustfulness? Aside from my feverish gibbering, of course.”

 

“Not in his words.”

 

Oswald arches his eyebrows, leaning closer. He rests his bony jaw on his hand.

 

“Wherein, then?”

 

Hawk’s features strain with wrath. He presses his lips together. Oswald gestures towards him, imperiously, and Hawk spits:

 

“He laughed.”

 

“I see.” Oswald’s glance flutters to Ed.

 

Ed doesn’t return his look. He’s staring at Hawk rigidly, sombrely, with his head down. His chin almost touches his shoulder.

 

The guardsman goes on:

 

“He laughed when you were in pain, when you kept saying that Nygma hurt you and cursed you. He fucking giggled.”

 

“I’ve told you already: I am not to be relied on in this situation. Also, you must be aware of your wording.”

 

“Excuse me, Captain. But I have never seen a surgeon whose patient’s agony gave him reason to laugh. You were clamoring for your own death. You would choose death instead of being cured by this bastard. I’m not letting your words go.”

 

Oswald sighs.

 

“Who hit first?”

 

“It was me.”

 

“Dr. Nygma, why did you hit back?”

 

“It was self-defence.”

 

“Don’t mess with me.”

 

Ed chuckles quietly. His crooked fingers tap on his neck, his eyes flash with darkness. He looks up as he’s looking for the right words.

 

Oswald feels an urge to slap the joviality off his pretty face.

 

“Mr. Hawk piqued me and violated me. He criticised my profession and my methods. He hauled me up for my attitude. He accused me of being a charlatan, of wishing your death, my Captain. I avenged it all.”

 

“Are there really no verities in Mr. Hawk’s accusations?” Ed opens his mouth, but Oswald snaps: “I’m warning you. If you lie to me now, I will be well aware of it. So I’m asking you again. Do you wish for my death, Edward Nygma?”

 

Silence tolls in the cabin. Hawk holds his breath, waiting for Ed’s confession. His glance is flashing between Oswald and Ed, tirelessly.

 

They stare into each other’s eyes. Ed smirks once again, closing in with soft steps. He stretches his arms to lean on the table, stooping above Oswald. The air in Oswald’s lungs is being filled with his intoxicating scent.

 

Oswald hold his hand up so the guardsman will stay in his place.

 

He is sinking into those dark, alluring eyes. He is drowning in them as they are floating closer and closer.

 

Ed’s sharp teeth are smoldering in his mouth as he speaks, softening his voice.

 

“I wish for it more than anything in the world, and I would never take it from you arbitrarily,” he whispers. “Whenever your time comes, I wish to be present, I wish to finish you with my bare hands. I wish to hurt you, to tear you apart with teeth and nails and blades. I wish to bring you torture, I wish to bring you pain. I want you to beg for mercy, to not swallow back your screams, to curse me, to swear, to sweat, to cry for more. I wish to hear your every whimper, your moans, your rattles. I want you to oblige me. I want you to want me. I wish to do many things with you, Mr. Penguin; things that nearly kill you, indeed. But only if you want me to. Never forget that.”

 

Oswald is panting. His nails deepen into the wood of the tabletop. His held up hand starts to tremble. Ed’s smile is soft and desirous. He tilts his head. Oswald feels faint as he holds onto Ed’s glance with his.

 

He pops his tongue. He leans back in his chair, breaking out from Ed’s gravitational force, his scent. He strokes his palm with his fingertips, crushing his skepsis.

 

Ed doesn’t draw back. His fingers are tapping on a map under his hands as he is waiting.

 

“I wish I could dance with you instead of Jack Ketch. But if you believe that I should hang for my sins, let this be my day of judgment.”

 

“Gentlemen, your wording is atrocious.”

 

Oswald heaves his hand to send Ed back to his place, swallowing dry. He caresses his teeth with the tip of his tongue, wondering.

 

Ed steps back, next to Hawk. The guardsman hangs his head down, his trembling hair hides his face.

 

Oswald drinks.

 

“Your honesty is exemplary, Dr. Nygma. Thank you.”

 

“I am at your service.”

 

“Mr. Hawk, I am also grateful to you for standing up for me. Do you gentlemen insist upon a duel?” They stay silent. Oswald lowers his eyes. His nails knock on the glass.

 

“Excellent. Mr. Hawk, I’m demoting you. Assign someone from your group to take your place in the course of this day. I also relieve you of your extra shares. Dr. Nygma, you should have presumed on my fondness for you. I have warned you to not make any more mistakes. I hope you don’t mind being a swabbie.”

 

“I can’t say that.”

 

“You’ve proven yourself to be nothing but a pain in the ass so far. Your so called abilities are useless. Can you at least mop the decks?”

 

Ed’s look could kill as he stares at Oswald.

 

“I believe I can,” he hisses quietly.

 

Oswald beams, clapping his hands in his lap.

 

“I’m glad to hear that. We are done, gentlemen. Would either of you make an objection?”

 

Hawk shakes his head with his fists clenched. Oswald glances at him with a tender look. His glance sharply flashes at Ed’s face.

 

“Mr. Hawk, you may leave. Have a rest before your night watch.”

 

Hawk looks up at him. In his eyes, there’s warning and fear for him. Oswald’s features stay harsh, so Hawk tensely nods.

 

“Yes, Captain,” he mumbles. His shoulder bumps into Ed’s as he leaves.

 

Ed is staring after him. Oswald cannot see his face. The cabin’s door creaks after Hawk, and Ed turns back. Oswald is already in front of him, face pale and quivering with rage.

 

Oswald slaps him.

 

The heavy rings leave new scars on Ed’s bruises, his glasses tat on the floor. Ed gasps, snapping at the burning mark of Oswald’s slap.

 

He opens his mouth to express his resentment, but Oswald doesn’t let him. He quickly grabs him by the neck, pulling him down, stealing his breath.

 

His kiss is cruel and harsh. He bites into Ed’s tongue, his swollen lips. Ed is struggling to keep up with him, to kiss back, but Oswald draws back.

 

He breathes:

 

“You do like threatening me, don’t you?”

 

Ed’s forehead sticks to his, his giggle is trembling through his ribs. He moves close. His palm is stroking Oswald’s arm, grabbing his wrist. He lifts Oswald’s hand to his lips, kissing the rings that hurt him.

 

“Isn’t that what you want?”

 

“You misprize me.”

 

“Do you think so?”

 

“Prove it. Do what I want you to do right now.”

 

Ed arches one eyebrow, smiling faintly. Then, he lets Oswald’s hand go, tactfully stepping back, chaining Oswald’s eyes to his.

 

Oswald tilts his head, humming.

 

“Good boy.”

 

Oswald wobbles to the windows, unhanging a towel from the steel hook, ferreting the horizon with squinted eyes. The sunlight burns the foams with white flames, the air is heat-hazed and still.

 

Oswald reaches out to his glass, idly. He is chattering.

 

“There’s a spring in the island, not so far from the shore,” he says, primping. He peeks back at Ed, who drinks in his every word with fallen eyelids. “A tiny waterfall, girdled with palm trees. Half an hour’s walk away, eastwards. You can’t mistake the path that leads you to it. You will face one parting of the ways. Keep right.”

 

He spins in front of him, putting the glass back to the tabletop. His tongue tastes bittersweet from the wine and Ed’s kiss. He presses his lips together as he passes Ed, growling:

 

“Don’t keep me waiting.”

 

⚓

 

He undresses on the hot, damp rocks. They had been smoothed by the rippling spout. The lukewarm drops are dotting his crooked ankle and foot.

 

The waterfall’s roar devours his weapon’s clashing. The palm trees reach out to the sky, hiding him from the heat of the Sun. Around him, all the greens melt into each other, forming a living bailey, quieting the faraways sounds: the monkeys’ screams, the whirring of fleet wings.

 

He slips into the springwater with caution. The water’s coolness flickers his nerves, seizing his leg, crippling him for a moment.  On the far side, the water seems shallow.

 

Oswald is swimming towards it with one leg and astounding grace. He is panting when he lies down on the rocks. His duvet is the sparkling surface.

 

He squints up at the sky. He is looking for the Sun, to paint a line in his imagination. He ordains a timeline for Ed to join him. He will not wait for him if he doesn’t get here before the Sun reaches the highest leaf of the third palm tree.

 

The veily clouds slip away with his thoughts. His mind is clear once again, on his closed eyelids, there’s the orange whist of the afternoon.

 

New sounds snap into the waterfall’s tramping. Soft and clumsy steps are slipping closer. That son of a bitch sneaks on his toes instead of his whole feet. Oswald overcomes the urge to grin, eyes still closed.

 

Oswald is stirring waves with his hands, innocently. The steps stops short, like he is already exposed. Oswald sighs pleasantly, remaining still.

 

Ed is waiting for a moment before he starts sneaking up on him again. He’s close now. It only takes a few steps before he reaches him. He’s thoughtful at least, getting round him, so his lanky figure doesn’t cast a shadow on Oswald’s face, disclosing his plan.

 

Seconds pass. He’s within reach.

 

Oswald’s eyes shoot open. He reaches up, grabbing Ed’s wrist with wet fingers, shoving him into the water, where it deepens, where the water is blurred and evening-blue.

 

Oswald start laughing when there’s a loud splash. He tilts his toes over the surface.

 

Ed is flailing and fluttering in the water, terrified and fully clothed, his glasses still on the bridge of his nose. Oswald laughs even harder, tearing up.

 

“Come now, doctor. Don’t tell me you can’t swim.”

 

“Please-! My Captain, please!”

 

Oswald is observing him with a pout. Ed’s tussle entertains and amuses him. Ed’s head dives under the surface for a moment. He wrestles himself up again, snorting and praying.

 

Oswald shakes his head.

 

“You’re a wretched pirate.”

 

“I’m begging you! Please, help me!”

 

Oswald rolls his eyes, floundering closer to lend Ed a hand.

 

Ed’s bony fingers grab him, pulling him with all his might and strength.

 

A splash. Oswald is sinking. He kicks himself up, swearing and spitting, but Ed hugs his waist, scratching him, and pulls him back down with him.

 

Oswald holds his breath, staring at Ed with dilated pupils. His eyes feel filmy. Ed’s face is looming in front of him, features victorious and calm. His chestnut hair is flickering. Only his smirk is crystal clear, his mouth with the glowing teeth which he roughly presses into Oswald’s mouth now, demanding a breathless kiss.

 

Oswald swallows water, choking on it. Ed’s palm slides to his arse to push him up. Ed is following him with a long kick.

 

Oswald is coughing and sneezing, cradled in Ed’s arms. Breathed sips are pouring from his lips.

 

“You godforsaken- viperish- damned- son of a-”

 

Ed giggles. His feet are pistoning to keep them on the surface. Oswald lets him hug him close, while he grabs his damp shirt on his chest.

 

He can finally breathe. He throws his head back to look into Ed’s eyes.

 

“You will pay for this.”

 

“I can’t wait,” Ed purrs, leaning close to kiss his cheek. He leaves his lips there as he breathes: “To what do I owe your invitation?”

 

“Not nearly drowning me, you may take my word for it.”

 

“I am genuinely sorry.”

 

“Of course you are. Let me go.”

 

Ed obeys. Oswald swims back to the jut of rocks. He grabs a pointed edge to pull himself up, so he can sit on the salient, where the water hides him below his abdomen. The rocks curve above him like palm leaves, protecting him against the wind and the light, like the mouth of a tiny cave.

 

Ed slinks closer and Oswald snorts.

 

“Come here if you dare.”

 

The rock is not thick enough for Ed to sit next to him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He peeks up at Oswald, questioning, throwing his wet glasses on the rock. Oswald looks back with suspicion.

 

Ed’s eyes shine slyly. He claws into Oswald’s bony knees, spreading his legs, floating himself between them. Oswald grabs Ed’s tail of hair, pulling it with his fist to warn him. Ed’s kisses tickle him on his stomach and ribs.

 

“You didn’t answer me,” Ed whispers, burning his skin. His light fingertips circle on Oswald’s thighs. “Why did you invite me here?”

 

Oswald pulls him up by his hair. Ed needs to cling to the ledge, helping himself up. His damp shirt sticks to his skin, exposing the waves of flesh with its crinkles. Oswald lowers his eyes, watching the beads of water dripping from Ed’s face.

 

“I wanted company.”

 

“Did you regard me as the most eligible company?”

 

“You’re in possession of the answers I need.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

Oswald’s crooked grin consoles Ed. His index finger follows the line of Ed’s cheekbone, stopping by his lower lip. He whispers into his face:

 

“You won’t take me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

“That’s not the only thing I’m interested in about you.”

 

“Oh, I know it. Fucking me, seeking my life; it’s all one for you.”

 

Ed smiles and sniffs. He part his lips, trembling for Oswald’s. Oswald has mercy on him, leaning ahead for a brief kiss.

 

Ed sighs. He deepens his nails into Oswald’s nape, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Ed is kissing him, claiming him, seducing him for a fight. Oswald moans quietly, his knees straddling Ed’s slender hips.

 

“Where are you actually from?” he breathes.

 

Ed tenses. He only draws back for a moment before he starts kissing him again, smudging his lips on Oswald’s teeth.

 

“From the north,” he finally mumbles.

 

“Sp… specify.”

 

“Gotham.”

 

Oswald recoils, heaving into Ed’s open mouth. He lets his hand fall, his fingers slip out of Ed’s hair.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“Is it troubling to you?”

 

Oswald licks his dry lips. From his locks, icy drops are dripping onto his shoulders.

 

“It’s my hometown.”

 

“You’re aiming for Gotham, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“It is my ultimate destination. You knew this, too.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“That’s why you fled up on my ship.”

 

In Ed’s eyes, the elvish light doesn’t flicker. Still, his arm is trembling, like he couldn’t hold himself up anymore.

 

“My Captain, you are asking questions which are not serving your purpose. Everything I give you is only what you want, but you’re not aware of it yet. My answers will not please you.”

 

Oswald growls, turning away, so Ed cannot reach his lips again. Ed kisses his throat instead, marking Oswald his property via the path of his artery.

 

“What do you expect to find in Gotham?” Oswald keeps importuning. His spider-like fingers crawl up Ed’s scapulae. The next kiss makes him moan. “Do you have a family?”

 

He feels Ed’s teeth on his skin. The fucker is grinning.

 

“I do not.”

 

“My mother lives there. I’m the only family she’s got.”

 

“Do you love her?”

 

“More than anything.”

 

Ed’s lips reach his collarbones. Ed bites into him roughly. Oswald thrusts himself closer, sticking his thrown back head to the rocks.

 

“Does she know you’re a pirate?”

 

“She cannot find out. Ever. She’s such a soft-hearted woman. She couldn’t bear the thought.”

 

Ed swallows. The tramping waterfall almost throttles his words.

 

“It’s hard to carry our secret’s weight on our shoulders.”

 

“What smites you?”

 

“Too much, my beloved.”

 

Ed replaces himself: he is holding himself up with his left hand, smoothing his forehead against Oswald’s so he can look him in the eye. Oswald glances at him, idly. Suspicion is still scratching inside his pupils. Ed’s features are sharpened by sorrow, his smile is heartsore.

 

“You wouldn’t even believe me.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“How could I ever trust you?”

 

“I’m not asking for it.”

 

“There’s something you really don’t understand, Ed. I’m not willing to tolerate you on this ship if I don’t trust you.”

 

Ed smirks again, grazing the tip of his nose against Oswald’s.

 

“You’ve been telling me that for days now. Are you ever willing to give up on me?”

 

“Do you think I wouldn’t leave you alone on this goddamn island with only a pistol, with only one bullet, so you could decide for yourself if you deserve to live?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“You’re making me furious.”

 

“I love it when you’re furious.”

 

Oswald laughs, his swollen eyes darken. Ed cups his cheeks gently, letting the rock go so that he slips back to the water. His fingers stroke Oswald’s neck and chest, searching for his sliced flesh. His glance is charmed by the hackly scars.

 

“You’ve already seen them all.”

 

“I can’t get enough of you.”

 

“What do you expect to find in Gotham?” Oswald asks again. He pokes Ed with his toes under the surface. “You have no family.  A lover?”

 

“My heart is taken, you know that.”

 

“Sweet words don’t impress me.”

 

“Because you don’t let them.” Ed peeks up at him. His hair, clamped with the chenille, floats on the surface like seaweed. “Is he good to you?”

 

“Who are you talking about?”

 

“You know who.”

 

Oswald tsks, drawing his leg back. Ed goes on, voice raspy:

 

“Does he love you? Do you love him back?”

 

“You can’t make anything of him. It’s not about love.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“My dear, don’t tell me you’ve never fucked a whore before.”

 

“He means nothing else to you? Really?”

 

“You jealous bastard,” Oswald spits, turning away with a deep sigh. He looks back then. His voice quiets menacingly. “You still haven’t answered me yet. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

 

“I did answer, my Captain. You wouldn’t believe I would, so you couldn’t hear it. Do you feel more for me? Is that why you keep withholding, denying me?”

 

Oswald snickers, leaning forward to cup Ed’s hollow cheeks. Ed’s arms are pressed between his thighs, his pupils dilate like a drop of blood falling on parchment.

 

“With every single minute passing by, I trust you less and less. I don’t know who you are, I don’t know what you are, I don’t know what you want. Your pride nauseates me-”

 

“My affection charms you,” Ed whispers, and Oswald grins.

 

“Your daring angers me.”

 

“My touch captivates you.”

 

“Your games annoy me.”

 

“I seduced you, you can’t deny.”

 

Oswald raises his eyebrows, mumbling:

 

“Come now, what makes you say that?”

 

He curves his spine to reach Ed’s ear, biting into his lobe. He starts nibbling it, stretching the flesh towards himself. Ed tenses under him, his moan is just a shivering sigh.

 

Oswald shoots his tongue in return, caressing the marks of his teeth. His hot breath is throbbing in Ed’s ear.

 

Oswald presses a kiss behind Ed’s ear, taking his jaw between his teeth. Ed’s neck tightens as he throws his head back. His fingers clutch around Oswald’s wrist, encouraging him, craving his violence. His breath is rapid, like his quick pulse. He breaks into shivers in Oswald’s hands as he nips at his skin, tasting him, stroking him with the tip of his nose and his wet hair.

 

“Captain-” He can only gasp, he’s already weak and trembling. He reaches out to the rocks to claw at them. The fresh sip of air sticks in his throat when Oswald’s naked foot finds its way between Ed’s thighs, sticking to his groin. “Oh dear.”

 

Oswald’s grin is cruel. He starts circling with his foot, idly, with shameful clemency. He nestles his head into the curve of Ed’s neck and shoulder.

 

“You lewd whore,” he mumbles, biting into Ed’s skin again. “It drives you mad that you can’t have me. Your heart is trembling and your blood is boiling, you’re shivering between my teeth, lusting for a night.” He peeks up at him. “Tell me, Ed. Do you fire the gun too early at other times, too? May I consider it an honour that you cannot contain yourself when I torture you a bit? You don’t deserve me.”

 

Ed’s lips part, but he can’t let his voice out. Oswald’s foot follows a breathless rhythm as he purrs against Ed’s neck:

 

“Pardon me?”

 

Ed’s voice cracks on his tongue.

 

“Please…   _please_. Oh my.”

 

Oswald seizes Ed’s neck, biting into his lower lip until Ed cries out. He kisses him rough, his fingers gripping Ed’s throat. He draws back to breathe, their lips still touching.

 

He purrs:

 

“Louder. Beg for me. Pray for me. Would you do it? Would you bite your pretty little lips until they bleed? I have to admit, you abashed me. Is my foot enough to bring you pleasure? Wouldn’t you like to feel my hands instead? My fingers around you? My mouth, savouring you? Imagine my tongue between those thighs. I could rip your pants off, scratching through you, taking you into my-”

 

Ed grunts. His voice smooths into moaning. His nails sink into Oswald’s waist, shoving him closer. His sharp jaw rests on Oswald’s shoulder and he kisses Ed’s hair.

 

Ed’s curt breaths are stridulous. He is almost whining as Oswald slows down, his foot’s pressure is sweet and fierce.

 

A branch cracks somewhere.

 

Oswald freezes.

 

He presses his palm to Ed’s mouth to shut him up, hissing at him. He is harking with unfocused glance, recognises someone’s tread in the cracking.

 

He lifts his sole to Ed’s shoulder, whispering “Down!” before he kicks him under the water.

 

He peeks behind, lurking. Gabe’s silhouette is lit by sunlight as he steps from behind the palm trees. Oswald greets him, and Gabe nods back.

 

“Everything is ready, Captain,” he says, stopping in a respectful distance. “Twenty barrels of fresh water, ten barrels of fruit. Yan got some monkeys. He wants to roast their meat tonight.”

 

“Great.”

 

Oswald glimpses into the water. The surface is motionless, Ed’s swaying hair is just a blur. He doesn’t move. Oswald pokes him with his toes, and Ed replies with stroking his leg with careful fingertips.

 

Oswald sighs.

 

“Tell the crew to be on board in an hour. We’re not hanging around anymore.”

 

“Yes, Captain.”

 

Gabe is ready to take off; still, he hesitates. Oswald kicks into the water again, to keep Ed in place: he hits his head this time. He clears his throat, hissing.

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Do you need any help?”

 

“I don’t. Thank you.”

 

“We’ve been worried about you, you know. Since you took to bed.”

 

“It’s nice of you gentlemen, but please don’t be worried. Everything is under my control. My life as well. _Anything_ else?”

 

Gabe strokes his beard, shaking his head. He smiles as a goodbye, turning on his heels. The path is slowly devouring his figure, leading him back where he came from.

 

Oswald lifts his foot up. The surface is still suspiciously motionless as Ed resurges with calm breath and misty eyes.

 

“You didn’t drown,” Oswald states ungainly.

 

He splashes next to Ed, swimming towards his clothes he left near the waterfall. Ed is staring after him, grabbing the rocks, but he doesn’t dare to follow him. Oswald peeks behind to see his crooked figure, his face, disfigured by unsatisfied ache.

 

Oswald climbs onto to the shore, sloppy with water. He reaches for his towel, drying himself. He lets his hair wet, shaking his head before he slaps his feathered hat on his head.

 

Ed keeps staring at him while Oswald dresses up. Oswald can feel his rapturous, deadly glance and his own victorious grin as he buckles his weapons.

 

He is getting around the spring with slow steps to reach the rocks. He stops before Ed. He doesn’t lean ahead when he spits into his face:

 

“If you’re late, I’ll leave you behind.” His grin melts. He lowers his eyes to look at Ed’s groin: his pants are dim underwater. Oswald asks him quietly: “Do me a favor and think about me while you’re handling yourself.”

 

He turns his back, wobbling towards the verdurous path.

 

When he steps below the trees, he starts humming.

 

⚓

 

The Iceberg keeps rippling north-westward. The winds are still steamy, its hazy weight tightens Oswald’s lungs. The spicy tropic air is changing into an empty and salty smell as the brigantine leaves the shore, tilting and softly creaking.

 

She sighs as she lays onto the fumy waves.

 

⚓

 

By the time they reach and pass Bimini, they have performed two successful raids. The route they’re sailing glories in less magnificent booty than the area of the Caribbean Sea; still, Oswald knows these waters, just like he knows his crew.

 

The fuzzy-haired lookout has the talents of a wild cat, eyes too: from the crow’s nest, she can spot every sail in the horizon in a blink of an eye. Gabe knows the ship best, sailing her smoothly and swiftly, chasing after any ship with success. With Zsasz’ orders, every gunner works precisely and carefully. They shoot through galleons’ decks, hewing down masts, creakily, like falling trees. Butch uses his hook as his best weapon, slicing throats and guts. Hawk, from the spiderwebs of the ropes, can shoot anyone dead who tries to swing over the brigantine’s main deck.

 

And of course, there’s Ed Nygma. Ed won Oswald’s regard the first time he grabbed a sword. Now, everyone honors his talent: Oswald ordered him to lead a small team of five to slaughter everyone who tried to shows resistance. That was the last time they spoke to each other.

 

Ed had returned to the brigantine in time, ruffled and slightly offended. He hadn’t wanted to answer Oswald’s questions about his pleasant time alone, finally losing against Oswald, not trying to start a new game ever since.

 

Oswald has never wanted to be pitiful like Fish. He’d watched her lose everything by leaving people alive, seducing the finks to her side. When Oswald festered a rebellion, Fish’s crew took sides with him for sweet words and empty promises. Oswald could even tempt those who were taken from Barbados. He soon learned that a tender heart means nothing when there’s gold and diamond sparkling.

 

The part of the plan he was willing to share resurged from the waters like the tip of an iceberg. Oswald kept going, icecap by icecap, murmuring more and more, making them believe that they were more trustworthy than the last. He used their drunken stupor and their hearts’ wishes, secrets and fears, until they all bowed to him like peasants. Rioters attacked the loyal ones, killing them all.

 

Then, Oswald killed _them_. Dead men tell no tales. They were all traitors; Fish’s traitors. Those sailors who dare to stab one captain in the back, will do it again and again, never learning. He should force them to taste steel first, he should slice their heads from their necks, gouging their eyes, surviving them all.

 

If Oswald took them under his wing, his life would be misery and fear, waiting for them to turn on him.

 

Heavy steps rush through the main deck. Screams clang, dreadful screeches. Oswald’s eyes shoot open, his bed spits him out. He wobbles to his door in his night robe, hastily buckling his weapons on his waist. He peeks back, through the windows. Between the heavy curtains, the Moon is shining, its lobe hovering low.

 

Soon, it’s dawning.

 

He slams the door open, crawling up to the main deck. He grabs the first pirate’s arm he sees, before he’d spring up the stairs next to him. Oswald turns him over with a fierce tug.

 

The ruckus is ear piercing. He has to shout.

 

“What’s happening? Speak!”

 

The pirate is mumbling and babbling, shaking in every limb. With his trembling fingers, he points over the rails. His blank eyes are twirling in his skull, frightened, like two marbles. Oswald shoves him away. The pirate stumbles over the stairs, dropping down. He stays there, hunching up and whining.

 

Oswald hurries to the rail, grabbing it with both hands, stooping over. He is staring down into the night-blue abyss.

 

For several moments, he sees nothing. In his eyes, there are still shattered pieces of his dreams. He’s blinking rapidly, hunting for something he doesn’t even know.

 

Then, he sees them.

 

Two scaled backs, shining like silver and ruby and emerald, rising from the waves.

 

Oswald unhooks the closest gas lamp, holding it over the boiling sea.

 

The light draws fresh silhouettes. Scarlet and blonde, flowing hair; slippery, glowing skin of scales. One of them is glowing with green nacre lights, and the other is scarlet and deep black. Their flesh is peeling off the bones of their hips, their bosoms, their fins, hiding their festering with crumbling asterias and corals. As the wind turns, it blows a rotten, reeking smell into Oswald’s opened mouth, wrapped into promising musk.

 

The blonde one spots Oswald with her corpse eyes, white as bones. She screeches at him. Her voice is raspy a death-rattle melting into a melody.

 

The sirens start singing a ghastly threnody, circling around them faster and faster.

 

Oswald snatches his pistol, turning on his heels. He shoots into the sky. The sailors freeze, filmy mist on their eyes.

 

“Ladies! Gentlemen! Others!” he shouts against the dazzling charm. “Listen to me carefully! If you keep rushing about like plagued rats, we’re all doomed! Gabe, show them what the ship can do! I want shooters on the quarter deck, on the shrouds, on the booms - everywhere where you can kill those beasts! Those who have nothing better to do, grab some goddamn dead load, and throw them in their rotten faces!”

 

The crew finally obeys him. Oswald rushes across the main deck to have sight of everyone. He keeps screaming orders on his way:

 

“I am not willing to lose any bastard souls tonight! I don’t want to see anyone in the water, so plug your ears, tie yourselves to the masts, slap each other, stab each other, I don’t care, but don’t let anyone jump into the sea!”

 

He reaches the end of the forecastle deck. He turns around, panting. On the main deck, some wretched souls are lurching towards the rails. By Oswald’s command, the others are shaking them to recall them to life. Victor Zsasz, who seems to be immune, goes around, stabbing them on the shoulders so the pain wakes them up.

 

Sailors are hanging from the shrouds with muskets and pistols, wrapping their limbs into the web of ropes. They aim for the sirens.

 

The weapons are crunching and smoking. Every bullet hits the sea. Those fucking beasts are too smart and nippy, only breaking off the song to chuckle at them.

 

The brigantine tilts right with a sigh. Oswald stares down and sees the portholes open, heavy guns rattle forth.

 

A heartbeat later, the red-haired siren crawls to the lowest porthole, scratching into the wood. She breaks her jaw to open her mouth. Dozens of sharp, tiny teeth glow in the dark. She screeches, wrathfully, and Oswald has to cover his ears so his drums won’t bleed. The gaslamp, still in his hand, burns his cheek.

 

“ _Shoot her to death already!_ ”

 

The siren grabs someone by the hand. The sailor bursts out of the gunport, chips of wood disperse in the air like they’ve been shot. The creature hurls herself at the sailor, hooking her teeth into his temple. She skins him alive, idly, revelling the sailor’s screaming, giggling at his desperate wriggling. His blood boils in the waves, painting the rippling foams with carmine.

 

The siren deepens her nails into the sailor’s flesh, grabbing him by the neck. She pulls him closer, pressing her icy-blue lips to his. The sailor’s muscles droop, his eyes hang - Oswald can only see the whiteness of them, glistening in the moonlight.

 

The creature keeps peeling his skin off. As she throws her head back, staring at Oswald, bloody shreds of meat are swinging between her lips.

 

She smirks up at him.

 

Oswald smacks on the rail with disgust and rage, throwing the lamp at her. He didn’t believe he’d succeed. The lamp hits the siren on the shoulder, its glass breaks. The oil pours at her, setting her on fire. She wails for her partner in their metallic, harsh language.

 

The reply comes from the other side. The creature swims underneath the ship, breaking surface. Seeing the other being hurt, she screeches again, more forlorn than before, looking for the culprit. She sees Oswald.

 

The siren clings to the ship, scratching and gnawing the wood. It seems like she’d crawl up to maul Oswald to death for what he’s done.

 

Oswald snatches his pistol, and clenching his teeth, he aims.

 

A rope tats next to him, tossed from the fore topsail’s yard. Oswald startles, almost dropping his pistol. He turns to the rope, but catches nothing: a shadow’s already slipped below, hovering over the angry sea, hanging on just in time.

 

Oswald looks around to see if anyone else has noticed the shadow. No one did. No one cares about him, hidden behind the arc of the hull.

 

He stares down again. The shadow is bending his legs, knocking on the hull with his heels. He clings onto the rope with one hand only. He’s only some feet away from the siren, who is still screaming and scratching the ship to get closer to Oswald.

 

The shadow turns his head, revealing his profile.

 

Oswald recognises him.

 

He opens his mouth to yell at him, to order him the fuck back, but his throat is dry and nothing comes out.

 

The shooters keep trying to kill the green-scaled siren for nothing. Even when they hit her, the bullets spring back from her steel-like scales, injuring them. She is just munching on the dead sailor, his skin torn by the sharp teeth.

 

Oswald’s knuckles whiten. He is gripping the rail with all his might, aiming at the siren helplessly. Shooting them are good for nothing. He stoops over the sea lower, almost falling into it. He still can’t scream at all.

 

The siren only now notices Ed. She is creeping towards him, hissing and grimacing and growling. Her features suddenly soften, she’s beautiful again and young and comely. A seducing melody is pouring from her lips.

 

Ed is elbowing on his bent knee, resting his jaw in his palm. On his face, Oswald can clearly see a jolly, but bored smile. His eyes are devoured by the shadows of the hull.

 

Then, he speaks.

 

He speaks the same, broken and scratching tongue as the sirens, a language and a voice Oswald has never heard before, not from any man’s mouth. He is as shocked as the siren, who is glaring at Ed with mouth open wide.

 

She starts talking back with clashing jaws.

 

Ed hold his hand up, hushing her. As he speaks again, he’s fucking scolding the creature, Oswald would swear to it. The siren keeps answering back, she’s snarling and pulling her hair. To Ed’s further words, she simply screams. As she reaches out to grab Ed by the throat, Oswald can feel his heart sink.

 

Finally, he can yell at them. He shouts down to Ed, pulling the trigger. The bullet hits the siren’s skull, springing back like the others. The siren throws her head back, but Ed grips her nape, roughly turning her to face him.

 

Something happens.

 

The shadows are still deep and strong. Oswald cannot see what the siren sees, only the fright in her eyes: her features freeze, her pinhole-like pupils are dilated. Her naked chest is heaving. She lets Ed’s neck go, floundering and whining in his grip. Her whimpering sounds like begging, her tiny fists keep thrashing Ed.

 

Ed throws her back into the sea.

 

The siren sinks. Her arched back mills again, yards away, swimming towards the other creature. She cries something, frightening the green-scalped siren. They both grab their prey, diving back to the deep with splashing caudal fins.

 

As the last rip smoothes, the bloodstained Sun appears on the horizon.

 

Oswald drops on his knees. He is panting and sweating, closing his eyes tight.

 

He peeks from between the wooden bars.

 

Ed has disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> Stay tuned for Chapter 4.


	4. Veni Ad Me

The _Iceberg_ looks miserable in the early light of dawn. She’s drifting slowly, without aim, without her quartermaster, without winds.

 

Oswald is circling on the deck, supervising his crew’s work. Felton’s cabin is crowded. They needed to put up a tent, sewn of sail clothes, to have a place for the injured sailors. Six shooters fell pray to the sirens, hurting themselves with their own bullets. The carpenter’s team is working on the wrecked porthole, covering the rift.

 

The air is filled with torturous moaning and the crunching sound of wood.

 

Oswald sent everyone to sleep who is useless for him either because of their lack of sleep or their dread. There are only a handful of blank-eyed guards on board, and Selina, who denied her order: she is huddled up above their heads, not leaving the crow’s nest.

 

The damage is negligible; still, Oswald feels like he lost the night. He needs every man since they left Nassau, but his crew keeps decreasing with every passing night.

 

He has blood on his own hands. One man was taken by fate, and two were - two were taken by something Oswald can only give Ed’s name. The lad who fell from the gaff might survive only til the next day. He’s only a misty crack in everyone else’s mind, but Oswald can still see his boyish features, his contorted shoulder, pulsing and swelling with angry red.

 

Ed has disappeared. Oswald cannot force himself down to the hold’s damp cave to search for him in the crowd of his crew, whimpering in their sleep. He cannot face him, he cannot command him. He must have the knowledge of his existence, but for now, it’s easier to make as if the surgeon had never been on this ship. Ed’s past words keep rippling and freezing in Oswald’s veins, the words he told him the first time he accused him of murder.

 

Ed is right. It’s not wise to kill him until he knows exactly what kind of devilish soul he cuts loose. He has to avoid the danger awaiting him. The sirens’ scuffle is a bad omen, only meaning that the brigantine is feared by the spawns of Hell as well.

 

The _Iceberg_ is cursed, about that Oswald is certain. The Devil is laying low beneath the deck, and Oswald let him inside; inside his cabin; inside his heart.

 

The carpenter lass is hopping on the deck from the hold. Her temples are sweaty, heaviness in only a haze on her eyes. She dries her forehead with her sleeve.

 

“We’re ready, Captain. The ship is patched up like nothing happened.”

 

Oswald sullenly nods, pinching the bridge of his nose, kneading his skin for more strength and solace.

 

“Good work. You may rest.”

 

The lass salutes. She sinks back into the ship’s insides with trembling knees, a grateful sparkle in her eyes.

 

Oswald sniffs, limping towards Felton’s tent to question him about the injured. They’ve been floating for long hours by now, drifting only dreigh miles. No one wants to stay in the siren’s deadly waters for too long, and the _Iceberg_ needs her sailors.

 

He draws the heavy curtains. The tent reeks of grumose blood and fusty sweat, all swirling in the bitter scent of rum. The smell slaps him in the face, and Oswald heaves his arm to hide his face in his silky shirt.

 

The sail cloths devour the sunlight, wrapping the tent in dim lights. There’s only one gas lamp sparking somewhere in the middle.

 

The curtains fall back with a flop as he steps inside, drawing his hands back. He blinks slowly to see something in the dusk.

 

His glance finds a crooked figure, stooping over a shooter to give her a sip of rum. The lass swallows. Her head tilts aside, her muscles droop. Soon, she is taken by lucid nightmares as she quietly whimpers and twitches. All her sounds are melting into the others’.

 

The man straightens, and Oswald aims his pistol at him.

 

“Get out,” he hisses breathlessly. “Get out of here.”

 

Ed surrenders with a tender, cheeky smile, holding his hands up. He steps closer, moving around the sleeping crew.

 

“Good day to you too, my Captain.”

 

“You heard me.” Oswald’s voice is trembling with rage. “You have no right to be here. I’ve _demoted_ you.”

 

“Please excuse my boldness, but I believe you owe me a thank you instead of a talking-to.”

 

“A ‘ _thank you_ ’?” Oswald snarls. The pistol clicks under his finger. Ed stops in front of him, not willing to wipe off his fucking smile. “I’m warning you. Do not provoke me.”

 

“I am taking Dr. Felton’s place,” Ed announces. His words are pouring from his lips, mesmerizing Oswald. “We reached the continent, and I proved myself to be better than him. That is what we agreed on.”

 

Oswald’s eyes widen. Suspicion boils the blood in his veins, turning his face red, lighting his freckles. The pistol starts shaking in his hand, so he barks:

 

“Where is Felton?”

 

Ed starts giggling. His voice is raspy and low.

 

“Unfortunately, Dr. Felton is not on board. Not anymore.”

 

“What have you done to him?”

 

“I know you saw me tonight. I know you were watching me. Let me ask you something. How many lives do you think I saved, including yours?”

 

“Tell me about the souls you’ve taken, not about those you’re still keeping for yourself.”

 

Ed breathes out, offended. He drops his arms, eyeing Oswald. His glance is dark and hateful, inside his pupils, there’s an amber glow; he’s like a beast, tearing its chains. Oswald swallows, tightening his grip around the pistol.

 

He can feel his own heartbeat, rattling against the cage of his ribs.

 

“Try anything, and I will pull the trigger,” he spits rigidly, hoping his voice won’t shake.

 

Ed’s glance shatters. He’s blinking rapidly, licking his lips. His features melt like faraway days ago, when his cheek was burnt by Oswald’s slap.

 

“My Captain-”

 

“Don’t call me that. I am not your Captain. From now on, you’ll be nothing to me but the bastard you are - the stowaway who fled upon my ship, murdering my men. I remember what you told me. You _are_ Death. You’re the plague, infecting my crew, infecting me.”

 

Ed is staring into the barrel, fallen eyelashes hide the gas lamp’s light in his glance. Suddenly, there’s a heavy gust of wind, blowing into Oswald’s face, stealing the air, choking him. Oswald gasps, crawling all over his vertebrae.

 

It’s already over. Ed looks at him again. His voice is toneless and dry.

 

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

“Leave us. Leave us now. Take away your demons, take away the smell of death, the misery and the dread. I’ll lend you a boat.”

 

“You’re a noble man.”

 

“Don’t make me pull the trigger. Do what I say.”

 

Ed steps closer. The barrel hits him on the chest and Ed slides a finger below the steel to lift it. Now, it’s pointing at his beating heart.

 

He tilts his head with a bitter, flaunty smile.

 

Oswald parts his lips, looking at him with heaving chest. Ed leans forward, above him, his hot breath is trembling in Oswald’s mouth.

 

Ed says:

 

“ _I refuse._ ”

 

And Oswald shuts his eyes, pulling the trigger.

 

The shot clunks on his eardrums, throbbing inside his skull. The powder’s smoky, acrid scent is in his nose, in his mouth. He is panting and shivering, waiting for the world to quiet, for a body to hit the wooden floor with a thump.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Oswald opens his eyes. His throat feels dry and scratchy. Ed’s lanky chest is still in front of him. His skin is rugged and smoky; the bullet pierced him through, slicing the flesh and nerves and veins and bones. He’s not bleeding. He’s not dying.

 

Oswald looks at him, throwing his head back. Ed peeks down at him with tristful eyes. Lightning flickers on his irises.

 

“How unpleasant,” Ed murmurs, taking his pistol away.

 

Oswald lets him. He opens his mouth, unable to speak. His cheeks are flaming like he’d have a fever again.

 

The injured sailors are laying around like stones, but the tent’s curtains flop away. Three or four pirates rush in, cutlasses and swords in hands.

 

Oswald’s glance is chained to Ed. He tries to free himself, vainly and desperately. Ed breaks his curse with glistening teeth, turning his head to the crew.

 

“It’s alright, mates. I fired it accidentally. I’m still trying to get used to it.”

 

They believe him. Oswald is waiting for them to leave, to be fucking cowards, to be childish and gullible, and he realizes: he’s the only one who has cause for suspicion. He’s the only living one who saw what Ed can do. He’s the only one who can see through him, and he has no evidence of anything he’s done. He’s not certain of anything anymore, not even believing his own eyes.

 

Ed looks at him again. His eyes are warm now, filled with guilt.

 

“Are you alright?” he whispers, lifting his hand to touch Oswald’s face.

 

Oswald finally moves, avoiding him. Ed’s hand freezes in the air.

 

“Don’t you dare touch me,” he breathes. His little wet gasps are echoing on the walls, and Ed is just staring at him, unsure and lost. “What do you want from me? _What the fuck do you want from me?!_ ”

 

Ed can’t reply. He tries to, shaking his head, swallowing.

 

“I-”

 

“I told you to obey me or I’ll demote you. I did. I told you to obey me or I’ll shoot you. I did. If you dare to stay on this ship after everything that’s happened, I swear to God-” Oswald slowly breathes in. When he speaks again, his voice is threateningly calm. “I swear to God I’ll spend every waking moment trying to kill you and destroy you. I will not rest until I find out how to send you back to Hell. You’ll kill my whole crew either way, but I refuse to let you get away with it easily. So decide, Edward Nygma, because I’m giving you a last chance.”

 

There’s silence for a long time. Oswald is staring at Ed, jaw trembling, forcing his tears back. Every inch of his body is freezing, and he can’t decide what makes him unable to move: his rage, his fear, his disappointment, or his heart’s ache.

 

When Ed finally speaks, his voice is also trembling.

 

“Forgive me. I should’ve obeyed you sooner. I should’ve left the first time you gave me an order.”

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Get the fuck out of here.”

 

Ed swallows.

 

“As you wish, my Captain.”

 

Oswald draws away from his path. He sticks his back to the sail cloth, making it thud and creak. Ed pulls away the cloth to step into the light.

 

He turns back for the last time, whispering:

 

“Farewell.”

 

⚓

 

The twilight is slowly devouring the sunlight. The _Iceberg_ and her crew are finally at peace. Nobody has seen Ed since he left Oswald at the tent. No boat is missing, only his belongings: he disappeared suddenly and unnoticed.

 

His absence is a blank and ripping feeling in Oswald’s chest. Its leak is wider and more painful than Oswald thought it would be.

 

He’s pouring himself another glass of brandy. He swigs it with his head thrown back, grimacing. The waves are cradling him.

 

They’re on the hunt again, lurking higher, waiting for trade ships like predators. Selina hauled in the Jolly Roger, ferreting the horizon.

 

The night is crawling slowly, knocking on the cabin’s door, sneaking on the walls, agonizing. Oswald looks in its eyes, letting it savour him. All of the candles are burning to their ends, and Oswald doesn’t bother lighting new ones.

 

His pistol is lying in front of him. He peeks at it again and again, hearing its thunder, tasting its smoke on his tongue. It’s a vile illusion as the moment of shooting comes back to him. The void in Ed’s heart. The sorrow in his eyes. His dry, scorched flesh. His palm that Oswald rejected.

 

His blood is throbbing with sticky hatred. He feels like his bones are crumbling, poison pouring from them; want and misery, all of them sour. He washes out their taste with brandy, swigging from the bottle.

 

He can’t find peace: the echo is stuck inside of his skull. He wishes for company, for redemption. He wants to forget, to rip himself open, to seduce him back with fresh blood, to let him do whatever he wants to him.

 

He buries his face into his palms.

 

He feels his own breath, bitter and hazy.

 

He drinks again, waiting for the rapture to flush over him. Ed’s illusion doesn’t leave him be. He was too beautiful with his chest exposed; Oswald could’ve reached inside of him, clawing his meat and bones. He could’ve grabbed his heart, tore it out, licking and tasting it, feeling the throbbing in his mouth as he sinks his teeth into it. It would be bittersweet and soft, and capturing Ed’s mouth after he devoured his heart-

 

Oswald closes his eyes. He leans onto his arms, crossed on the table. He presses his thighs together.

 

A dream takes him away on his chair, settling in his skull, drowning him.

 

⚓

 

In his dreams, Ed comes back. He sneaks into his cabin through the porthole, like he used to. His naked body is pouring wet, his hair loosening in the grip of the chenille. His teeth are chattering. His chest is still wounded.

 

Oswald steps to him, trying to wrap him up with his coat, but Ed doesn’t let him. He grabs his waist, pulling him close. The coat hits the floor with a thump. Ed is kissing him without any warning, his nails in his hair, his tongue in his mouth. He’s tasting him rough and dazed.

 

Oswald presses himself closer and closer, moaning into his throat. He scratches over his spine, making Ed gasp for air, kissing him again, craving for more. Oswald grabs onto his ass, circling his hips.

 

Their groins slick together. Oswald feels Ed’s sticky cock, pressed to his pants.

 

Oswald glances up at him. Ed has amber eyes and glowing skin, dry and warm under the dripping water. Oswald caresses him, smearing the drops. His mouth is still slightly ajar, bewitching Ed.

 

Ed lifts his trembling hand to ask for a touch he was bereft of earlier. Now, Oswald strokes his hand, pulling closer, melting into his palm. Ed’s thumb is circling over his lips, and Oswald takes it into his mouth, biting and sucking on it.

 

He takes away Ed’s breath as he slides his thumb deeper, softly gagging on it. He releases Ed’s hand just to unbutton his shirt, but Ed grabs his wrist, making him stop.

 

“Wait. Wait,” he breathes. Oswald didn’t expect him to speak to him in a human language. He lets Ed’s thumb slip out with a wet pop. “Please, wait.”

 

“You don’t want me?”

 

Ed’s features harden, his smile turns down at the corners. He slightly shakes his head. From his hair, salty drops fall into Oswald’s mouth.

 

“What a silly question,” he mutters, kissing him again. The tips of their noses touch. Ed’s smile fades. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. I have a desire for you I cannot contain. You insinuated yourself under my skin, I feel your heart throbbing next to mine, writhing behind our ribs. I’m choking for more, for your everything. Tell me, my Captain - do you believe in fate?”

 

Oswald’s neck is burning. His eyelashes feel heavy, the cabin’s warmth doesn’t cover him anymore. Voices rumble in the distance, like the crew would grumble together with the rising Sun.

 

As Oswald closes his eyes, the pistol’s thunder is clunking in his head again.

 

He shakes his head to shush the world.

 

He can only hear Ed’s heavy sigh.

 

“Wake up.”

 

“What?”

 

“Wake up,” Ed whispers into his neck again, biting into him. Oswald sighs, throwing his head back: Ed’s sweet poison is rippling through his veins as he tears the skin. _“Wake up.”_

 

⚓

 

He wakes up in his carmine velvet chair, forehead sticking to his hands. His rings left red marks on his skin. He twitches, gasping and grabbing into the tabletop.

 

He looks around with swollen and misty eyes. He feels salt in his tongue, his neck is still burning.

 

The blood is seething between his legs, his pants are soaking wet. He snatches a hand to his chest to calm down his scurrying heart. He touches bare skin.

 

His shirt is halfway unbuttoned.

 

⚓

 

Two weeks scramble by without Oswald noticing it. He doesn’t remember anything from the past days. He is circling around the decks, feeling wobbly from persistent hangovers. He grumbles his orders and appeases his crew.

 

Their prowling gives them nothing. The waters are dreary and secure. Only their former assaults ended with a success, when Ed was still with them. They’ve filled the chests and the locker with gold and ruby and sapphire. It’s not enough to stoke the coals. They’re only shining promises, which cannot feed their greed.

 

On April’s last day, the Sun is hovering high in the sky when Selina shouts down from the crow’s nest. She leans over the rail, pointing east.

 

“Sail!”

 

Oswald hurries up to the forecastle deck. He waves to Butch to follow him and give him the spyglass hooked on his belt. Butch obeys, and Oswald holds it to his eye, spying the horizon.

 

A monstrous galleon is lurching on the waves, making her way towards them. Oswald squints at the flag.

 

“American,” he murmurs, folding up the spyglass. He raises his voice. “She’s ours, my friends. You know what to do. Luff this little girl, get on the yards, prepare your weapons. Selina, keep me reported on her distance.”

 

“Eight miles!” Selina shouts from the nest.

 

“Fly the flag. She can’t escape us now.”

 

Selina complies, then hops on the main mast’s yard. She is balancing on it, barefoot, unknotting the ropes.

 

The Jolly Roger is fluttering in the wind, waving the skull of the albatross.

 

“Gabe,” Oswald heaves towards the boatswain, pointing at the galleon with his free hand “forty-five degrees to the east.”

 

Gabe salutes. The wheel is creaking in his huge palms.

 

The _Iceberg_ sighs, turning eastwards. Her slender rostra is pointing at the galleon, her sails catch the winds.

 

Victor appears next to Oswald, quiet like a ghost.

 

“The guns, Mr. Zsasz?”

 

“I have men for six or so on the right side.”

 

“Four miles!”

 

“So we’re defenseless on the left.”

 

Victor shrugs, grabbing the rail as the _Iceberg_ softly tilts.

 

“Those two sakers are good for nothing,” he drawls.

 

Oswald pops his tongue.

 

“Do what you can. Butch, help Gabe. Tell him to keep an eye on the left side. Expose the right one. We cross bows with that galleon.”

 

Both of them rush away. Butch scutters up the stairs, and Zsasz flips up the grid to jump down to the hold, paying no heed to the ladder.

 

Oswald wobbles back to the rail, digging his nails deep into the wood. Above him, echoing orders are shouted. The sailors are hanging from the ropes, balancing on the yards, reefing in the sails.

 

He doesn’t need the spyglass anymore to see the galleon’s grandeur. She’s a heavy, clumsy, and sullen beast. Her sails are way too wide, flopping below the reddish yards. Her foremast is crummy, Oswald can see the flag; a red cross is fluttering on a white flag.

 

They take down the American flag to change it to a Jolly Roger.

 

“Pirates!”

 

The veteran steps behind him. His features dawn on Oswald, lit by flames. He’s sucking on a pipe even now, staring at Oswald with dilated pupils.

 

“It’s the _Saint Dumas_ ,” he mumbles. “I know that flag. It’s Galavan.”

 

Oswald leans into the man’s face, grinning like a maniac. His hat’s brim casts a shadow on his pale face.

 

“So what? Come hell or high water, Galavan’s nothing but a pirate captain.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re up against.”

 

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Oswald sings, and whistles for Selina.

 

The lookout comes from the ropes, spinning in the air. She hits the wooden floor without a sound. Oswald grabs her elbow to pull her closer and whispers something into her ear. Selina salutes, turning on her heels, getting out of sight.

 

Oswald yells:

 

“Fire only at my order! Fight only when I tell you! They’re pirates!”

 

The galleon is slowing down, the waves are swashing under her. The _Iceberg_ cuts her path, quick and graceful, turning to her other side. Oswald eyes the _Saint Dumas_ ’ deck up and down, counting Galavan’s men. There are way too many of them. His crew is the reflection of his: sailors on the ropes, the yards, the decks, waiting for the captain’s orders. Barrels point at Oswald’s crew, ready to shoot through their hearts.

 

The galleon is a huge beast next to them. Four decks below, the hold is fat and wide. Her sails veil the sunlight, casting a shadow on the _Iceberg_.

 

Nobody moves.

 

The veteran murmurs behind Oswald.

 

“Too easy. It’s too easy.”

 

“Crow somewhere else!” Oswald barks, holding his hand up.

 

Ropes fly at them, gaffing the _Iceberg_. Galavan’s men don’t use them just yet; it’s a threat. The _Saint Dumas_ brought fog with her, covering the galleon in a smoky circle.

 

The winds cut into the fog, and a tall figure wreaths out of it, leaning on the _Saint Dumas_ ’ rail.

 

Oswald tilts his head, looking Galavan up and down. He’s a spindly man, his sun kissed skin is coarse and harsh. He throws his arms open, greeting Oswald like and old friend.

 

He shouts from above:

 

“Captain Cobblepot, if I’m not mistaken.” The waves twirl his low voice far away. His grin reveals his gold eyeteeth. His eyes darken.

 

Galavan’s a dandy, just like him, wrapped in lacy silk and soft leather.

 

Oswald smiles back at him, softly and carefully, shouting back:

 

“Everybody calls me Penguin. And you are?” he asks, eyes sparkling innocently.

 

The grin doesn’t flicker on Galavan’s face.

 

“My name is Theo Galavan. I’m the captain of _Saint Dumas_ ,” he gestures back to the galleon. “I’m so glad I could finally meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

 

“Only the half of those stories are true, I assure you.”

 

Galavan laughs. It sounds hollow and theatrical. He draws his hand back, stroking his beard, braided with bones and pearls.

 

Around his eyes, the wrinkles deepen.

 

“It would give me much pleasure to get to know you better. I have to admit, I’ve been waiting for our first… encounter.”

 

“You honor me.”

 

“If I may, I’d like to host you on _Saint Dumas._ I can offer you excellent wines. Would you join me?”

 

Galavan is acting polite like it matters. Like his crew couldn’t be all over the _Iceberg_ ’s deck, forcing Oswald’s men down to the wooden floor. They have the upper hand on them. Still, Oswald feels like he has a chance.

 

In his mind, the veteran’s words are echoing from the shore. Legends and ghost stories, spun by Galavan’s atrocities. He’s curious, he can’t deny; Galavan doesn’t scare him at all, and nothing could be sweeter than winding Galavan round his finger, despite every whisper that’s been flowing around the harbors.

 

So, Oswald straightens his spine, beaming up at Theo Galavan.

 

“Certainly.”

 

His crew starts whispering and mumbling behind him.

 

⚓

 

Galavan’s cabin is ample and tastelessly blank. Oswald is struck by the robust ornaments, the disordered bronze statues and the vibrant paintings. The colors are upsetting; they seem dim and luscious at the same time. Some are avoided by shadows, the others are almost melting from their frames.

 

Galavan gestures to offer him a seat. Oswald sits down, spreading his legs dowdily.

 

Galavan sits across the table, pulling out the wine as he promised.

 

“You must be very proud of your ship, Captain.”

 

Oswald is staring at the pouring wine.

 

“Tell that to my previous captain. I simply took her over.”

 

“You served Fish Mooney, if I’m not mistaken.”

 

“You are apprised of many things about me.”

 

Galavan laughs again. He fills his own glass too, raising it to Oswald before he takes a sip. Oswald’s nails cling on his glass.

 

“I told you I’d heard many great things. I like getting to know my fellows. Especially if their reputation doesn’t fall below expectation. You, Mr. Cobblepot, have been a Captain for only a mere month, and you’re already ruling these waters. I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise if I say I had a good reason to invite you here. I’d like to present you an offer, but before that… please, Captain - drink up.”

 

Oswald’s features harden. He sniffs, lacing his fingers tighter around his glass to hide his shivering. What could a cinder-bitter poison do if it’s pouring down a beast’s throat?

 

“What kind of offer?”

 

“You’re not quibbling. I like that.” Galavan stands up, to come round the table, sitting on its corner. His fingers are entwined, resting on his lap. He lowers his voice as he leans closer. “Join me, Captain. You and your crew. I need someone like you - a cold-hearted killer who can be of assistance to me.”

 

Screams clang outside. Steel lumbers and woods graze. On the windows, there’s wreathing smoke.

 

The whole ship is trembling.

 

Oswald snorts, giggling.

 

“Your compliments are inefficient, my friend. I know the deal.” His voice is slippery and sarcastic. “‘Join me or death awaits.’ I can’t say I adore your methods. They’re useless. Amateur. Classic, still stupid. Are you wishing to rule the seven seas? You’ll never succeed.”

 

Galavan arches his eyebrows. He hums, looking through the windows. Oswald is trembling with fury, his nostrils are white as a ghost.

 

“Think about it before you decide.”

 

“That’s not necessary,” Oswald grumbles, twirling the glass before he drops it on the floor. The glass shatters into sparkling shreds, the wine feathers. “You may not be careful enough, my friend. I’ve killed captains to get where I am now. I’m not willing to serve anybody. I’m a Captain. A ruler, a leader. Not a shooter, nor a gunner, _especially_ not an assassin.”

 

Galavan is smiling at him.

 

“I still ask you to think about it.” His glance glides to Oswald’s shattered glass. He puckers his lips. “You are testing my hospitality. I do hope you’ll learn something during your time being here.”

 

Oswald tenses. He starts from his chair to snatch his sword, but behind him, a whip lashes. A rope clogs around his wrist, pinching into his flesh. Oswald cries out, dropping his sword and dropping on his knees. His broken ankle is burning with pain. His wrist is pressed against his own back, the bones in his shoulder crack.

 

A woman steps out of the shadows, forcing him to stay on the floor with a kick.

 

He tries to grab his pistol with his free hand, but the woman tramples on his hand with her heels.

 

Oswald grunts and hisses, trying to escape the whip’s bite.

 

“Let me introduce you to my sister,” Galavan chatters. The woman smirks, pressing her heel deeper into Oswald’s hand. “Tabitha, would you be so kind as to escort Captain Cobblepot to his crew? They must be missing him by now.”

 

“Of course,” Tabitha purrs, kicking into Oswald’s nape with her bony knee. “Get up.”

 

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” Oswald spits. As he scrambles to his feet, he immediately tries to hurl himself at Galavan. Tabitha claws into his shoulder to stop him. Oswald grins up at Galavan with trembling lips. “I’m warning you. Don’t make the same mistakes the others did - the others I sent to their watery graves. You will pay for this. You have no idea who you’re facing and by the time you finally realise, it will be too late.”

 

Tabitha snickers. Oswald can feel her pitying glance sliding down him. She spins him on his heels, shoving and tossing him towards the door. Oswald peeks behind: in his eyes, there’s rage and disgust and hatred, burning his irises.

 

Galavan sips from his glass, squinting with joy. His legs are crossed as he tilts his foot.

 

⚓

 

The galleon’s cells are dim and stinking. Oswald is chained to his men, huddled up behind steel bars, on the damp, icy floor. The waves are pushing them up with the ship. Oswald sticks his head to the wall, closing his eyes.

 

He’s waiting.

 

Galavan’s crew slaughtered five of his sailors until they surrendered. They should’ve waited for Oswald’s orders, but they acted like idiots, fighting back. Oswald cannot endure their foolish venture, and now, here they are: a handful of sailors, captured.

 

He’s the only one who still has a choice. He made himself a promise, a promise he can’t remember. Only one thing is crystal clear in his mind: the ecstasy. The ecstasy of power, of control. The hold he has on the underworld.

 

He sniffs, eyes still closed. His smile melts his features, the yearning fever blossoms in his heart.

 

But first - they need to get out of here.

 

⚓

 

The heavy anchor is rattling and clattering. The _Saint Dumas_ drops it for the night. Oswald is counting the seconds, breathing out as the sound lowers, then fades.

 

They came to anchor.

 

Gaslamps glow on the walls. Their wardens are stretching and grumbling. Their cards are scattered on the table. They squint as they’re surveying the darkening cells. Oswald’s crew pretends to sleep, snoring and leaning on each other’s shoulders. Their heavy chains clanks, their sighs are deep and false.

 

Oswald’s eyes are open. He’s staring into the deep blue dark, peeking at the door that leads to the corridor of the lockers and the kitchen. He parts his lips, eavesdropping, even if he knows that their success comes with the night, crawling silently through the cracks.

 

The lead doorknob creaks. A sailor steps in with expanded shadows, the brim of her hat hides her face. The wardens stare at her, and the shadow speaks in a lowered voice:

 

“I came to relieve you. Captain’s orders.”

 

The wardens glance at each other. Oswald clenches his fist in the chains. His crew stops pretending, nudging the closest fellow.

 

“Alone?” one of the wardens ask, slowly standing up. “Where are the others?”

 

“Captain’s. Orders.”

 

The man grabs for his sword.

 

On the walls, Oswald can see the shadow flashing through the boards. A blade hisses, and the man drops dead without a sound, his cut throat dribbles blood. The other two wardens gasp, kicking their chairs aside. The tiny shadow is far more skilled and nimble than them: she hops on the taller man’s back with a flip, slicing his throat. Her bare foot swings to kick the third one in the jaw. The man moans and teeters, but the shadow is already in front of him, her arms around his neck, forcing him on the floor. The warden rattles for air, his palm smacks on the floor to beg for mercy. The shadow chokes him to death while he’s wiggling and fighting.

 

When he’s gone, the shadow lets him go. She leaps softly to the cells, pulling her hat off to show her frizzy hair and proud smile.

 

“Hello there,” Selina chatters, spinning the cell’s keys between her fingers. “Did ya miss me?”

 

⚓

 

They are creeping through the black corridor of the lowest deck, one by one, on soft soles. Oswald is kneading his wrists as he slides next to Selina: she is staring into the void with eyes wide open, guiding them without any light or flame.

 

Oswald whispers:

 

“The _Iceberg_?”

 

“She’s here, right next to the _Dumas_. We can easily get on.”

 

“The main deck is clear?”

 

Selina snorts.

 

“That’s what you asked me to do.”

 

“How many watchmen did you kill?”

 

“Not counting those three?” Selina shrugs, mumbling: “Ten, maybe.”

 

Oswald grumbles. Theo Galavan is actually a frivoling son of a bitch, but his careless confidence couldn’t stop Oswald from feeling bitter doubt on his tongue. Galavan left his whole crew with three wardens only; the brigantine wasn’t completely searched through because they would’ve found Selina; Galavan’s men are changing guards way too muddled and late, they’re alway exhausted by the time their shifts are over; and still-

 

Still, Selina only killed thirteen guards on a galleon and the brigantine altogether. Still, the captain is sleeping the sleep of the just in his cabin, unaware and perfectly calm.

 

Oswald cannot treat the _Saint Dumas_ with serenity, not anymore. Galavan is ambitious, striving like a child, but not as stupid as Oswald wishes him to be. He’s actually far from it. They couldn’t get away, they couldn’t be in fair safety, if they rest upon their self-effort, if Oswald doesn’t-

 

Selina hops on the ladder that leads through the hold. They have to climb a height of several feet before they can breathe fresh air again. From that, they’re only a couple of steps before they can get back to the _Iceberg_.

 

Oswald is climbing right under Selina, dragging his aching leg behind. He could let the others go first, but if something awaits them up there, he wants to be the first to face the danger. His speed doesn’t hold them back, he’s moving up skillfully, avoiding the ladder’s creaking steps with his crooked ankle.

 

Selina is shadowed by the void above him. Oswald’s head resurges from the hold, swallowing the fresh air of the sea like clear water. The galleon’s main deck is smothered in fubby fog; Selina disappears with every step they take.

 

She’s done a great job murdering them a clear path. Nothing can be seen or heard aboard, not a flickering light of the gaslamps, nor creaking steps.

 

Oswald is limping to the rail, followed by the boatswain, breathing heavily, and the quiet gunsmaster. Selina is already balancing on the rail, a rope in hand. She grabs Oswald’s wrist to help him up. Oswald takes her helping hand with a grunt, feeling Gabe’s palm on his back to softly push him.

 

Oswald swings across the fog, landing on his knees. He swiftly gets on his feet by the time the others arrive.

 

On the _Iceberg_ ’s decks, he counts five dead men. Oswald stares back into the haze, motioning for his crew to hurry up. As the last blonde lass’s heels knock on the floor, Oswald gestures to them to move quietly and quickly. They already know what to do: every one if them is devoured by the fog as they take up their posts. They’ll need a couple of minutes to set sail.

 

His riggers hop on the webs of ropes, climbing up. Gabe grips the wheel and Butch struggles to the anchor to heave it up from the soft sand as noiseless as possible.

 

Serene order overcomes their bleakness. Oswald cannot keep calm. His glance is ferreting over the galleon, waiting for the ghost ship to come to life. He doesn’t believe in chance. Much as they’re leery and vigilant, it takes only a creak or a flop to be noticed.

 

He can’t wait any longer. He turns on his heels to rush to his cabin. He locks himself inside, buckling the key to his leather belt. His fingers are trembling as he lights a candle. He grabs the candlestick, kneeling down onto the wooden floor with it.  He takes a crinkled parchment out of his pocket, unfolding it. As he smoothes it down on the floor, he hears the first scream, bellowed to him by the sea winds.

 

Oswald twitches, looming above the parchment, mumbling: _come on, come on, come on_. On the parchment, there’s an ancient, curlicued symbol, drawn with scarlet ink. Oswald is hunting for a crooked blade, grabbing its grip, slicing through his damp palm. He hisses. His blood is wheezing from his veins, hot and slippery. Oswald clenches his fist to crush out some fat drops. He reaches out, over the parchment, letting the blood drip down on it.

 

Rushing steps are rumbling outside.

 

A lass shrieks, the _Iceberg_ tilts left.

 

Oswald takes a slow and deep breath. As he breathes out, he starts murmuring:

 

“ _Veni ad me, belua. Veni ad me, armenta immania Neptuni. Veni ad me, belua. Veni ad me. Veni ad me-,”_ his voice fades. He breathes out again, quivering and panting: “ _Mihi ausculta! Veni ad me, veni ad me, veni ad me, veni-”_

 

A windstorm sweeps through the floor, blowing out the candle. It makes Oswald choke and recoil. He snatches his arm to his face, hiding it from the slapping wind. The parchment doesn’t even flicker - like it was nailed to the floor - while the storm tears into the baldachin and the curtains, knocking his paintings off the walls and the crystal glasses from the table.

 

The windstorm suddenly stops, the same way it started. Oswald can hear the urgent yells from the decks once again.

 

Behind him, the sound of light steps is echoing.

 

He startles.

 

Someone sneaked into his cabin and he didn’t even notice. Someone was lurking in the shadows, hearing his every word, watching his every move. Oswald scrambles to his feet, yelling with anger:

 

“Who’s there? Show yourself, rat!”

 

He is panting and feeling dizzy. The figure slowly strips off the darkness, stepping into the circle of the starlight.

 

Oswald gasps.

 

“ _You?!_ What are you still doing here?”

 

He comes closer with a soft giggle, hiding his hands in his pockets. He tilts his head as he reaches Oswald.

 

“But my Captain,” he whispers, flashing his teeth, “you have summoned me.”

 

Oswald’s chest is heaving. The scar on his palm is pulsing like his beating heart, like it would welcome the approaching beast. It’s more feverish and muddled and praying with every step he takes - Ed is glaring down at him with mercy and forgiveness, and his eyes are glowing with amber lights like rising moons, like the ones behind the cloudy abyss from that night, and from his dreams. Ed blinks: his eyelids are milky skins, vertical and slippery, and his pupils are thin strokes of quill.

 

Oswald’s blood feels leaden, rippling clumsily.

 

His voice is trembling as he breathes:

 

“Leviathan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> Stay tuned for Chapter 5.


	5. Leviathan

“Leviathan.”

 

Ed is closing in with leisurely, knocking steps. Oswald backs off, wobbling: his heel kicks over the candle and his waist hits the corner of the carved mahogany table. Ed steps right in front of him, leaning on the tabletop, caging him. His head is looming above him: his otherworldly eyes are flaring up. Oswald is staring into them, unable to move, letting Ed press his chest to his.

 

Ed doesn’t seem to care about Oswald’s wriggling, nor his broken voice as he whispers:

 

“It’s you. It’s you.”

 

“It’s always been me,” Ed murmurs, flashing his teeth. “I am at your command.”

 

“Will you haunt me till the end of all times?”

 

Ed giggles as he peeks away, towards the door: the rumbling and stomping outside is growing louder. His grin widens.

 

“Truthfully, I believe you’re running out of time, my Captain. Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

“You know what I want.”

 

Ed puckers his lips, shaking his head in disapproval.

 

“You have to say it.” He grins at him again, leaning even closer. The tips of their noses almost touch. “Tick-tock. Tick-tock.”

 

Oswald swallows. He straightens his spine, sniffing, glaring into Ed’s eyes. His jaw tenses as he speaks up:

 

“Help me reach clear waters. Help me disappear without any leads to follow. Help me. Please.”

 

“What do you offer me in return this time?”

 

Oswald’s voice runs dry. He chuckles up, miserably.

 

“ You murder my crew without my permission. You didn’t need my word for that. ”

 

“Yes,” Ed hisses, tilting his head. He kisses Oswald’s cheek, and Oswald bites his lower lip. “With me on board, nothing remains for you to offer.”

 

“Except for myself.”

 

Ed blinks, straightening his spine to draw back. Oswald squints at him, sliding his fingers up to his neck. He strokes Ed’s nape with his fingertips, pulling him back to purr into his face:

 

“Seductive offer, I know. It’s me who you want the most. That’s why you’ve followed me like a shadow. Help me, and I’m yours. Come back to me, and you can do whatever you want with me.”

 

“Is that what you want?”

 

“Are you rejecting me?”

 

Ed doesn’t reply right away. He steps back, his heels knock on the bloody parchment. He looks into Oswald’s eyes through the twinkling light of the candle. He murmurs:

 

“I accept your offer.”

 

The symbol waxes with scarlet light then wanes.

 

Oswald breathes out, relieved. Ed looks away as he hurries to the porthole. The blood is frothy in Oswald’s veins, his legs pick up strength to rush after Ed. He claws into his shoulder to turn him back, and pulls him down to kiss him on the lips, paying no attention to Ed’s astonishment.

 

Ed gently moans, whispering:

 

“To what do I owe this?”

 

“What do you think?” Oswald crinkles his nose. “You’ll still pay for the things you did to me.”

 

Ed opens his mouth to speak, but Oswald cuts in:

 

“Now show them Hell.”

 

He lets him go, falling back on his soles instead of tiptoeing. Ed takes his leave with a smile before he disappears through the porthole. Oswald blinks, missing his disappearance as he slides out of his clothes, whole body lengthening. For a moment, Oswald imagines he sees translucent scales, strained together like plates, and sharp, bent vertebrae, covered in rugged fins.

 

Oswald pushes himself away from the porthole, wobbling to the door. He unlocks it, rushing through the narrow hallway to step to the main deck. Around him, his sailors are making noise and running from deck to deck. Oswald ignores them. He limps up the stairs to reach Gabe and grabs his elbow for balance.

 

“Has anyone seen the beast?” he yells into his ear, peeking up at the sturdy face. “Did Galavan release it?”

 

Gabe shakes his head. He presses his lips together, concentrating on navigating the ship. The wheel is slippery with seaspray, the water is too shallow: they might strike the rocks if Gabe loses control of the _Iceberg_. Oswald blinks up along the main mast: from the thick fog, two blood-red straps hang down, torn by the winds. Selina is guiding them from the crow’s nest, giving signals for Gabe with the straps.

 

“There’s no beast,” Gabe says at last, tilting the wheel twenty degrees as the left strap flutters slightly. “Just this godforsaken panic.”

 

“It’s almost over,” Oswald mutters, patting Gabe’s arm before he  shuffles to the end of the quarter deck.

 

The main boom is hovering and creaking over him. Oswald grabs the rail with both hands, leaning over. He glares into the water with dry eyes, ferreting into the deep. His glance flicks across foamy waves.

 

The sea finally splits in two. The haze dissolves, the water hisses. Streamy drops are dripping from the transparent crust of the arched, thorny back. Oswald can’t hide his crooked grin as he watches the serpent’s gentle wave, the beat of a wet breath taken in.

 

The beast slides under the ship. Oswald feels a swell under his boots. He tears into the rail with his fingers, closing his eyes. The Leviathan slithers under them, balancing the brigantine on his spine, floating them away from the danger: from the _Saint Dumas_ and from the coral reefs.

 

Oswald’s crew carols and sallies forth. They can’t see what he sees: they can only sense the risen winds that stretch the sails. The brigantine is rippling on the waves, her narrow bowsprit sabers the mist.

 

Oswald stares back. The galleon falls astern, only a blurry spot fading against the horizon. Galavan shoots the guns, using their last chance. The heavy cannon balls splash into the sea, missed and far away from the rudder.

 

Oswald chuckles. He peeks down again to see the serpent. He remembers what the Leviathan is capable of. Oswald doesn’t need to worry.

 

The _Iceberg_ is safe.

 

 

⚓

 

 

By the time the burning Sun dives behind the horizon, the _Iceberg_ slows down. Oswald’s on the quarter deck again to hunt for  _ him  _ in the foamy waves, but he sees nothing. The Leviathan must’ve sunk deeper, and Oswald can only hope that Ed keeps his promise and comes back to him.

 

His steps are lighter as he sinks down into the hold to ask the cook for his meal. He finds Yan in the kitchen with three other sailors, sitting and sipping rum from the bottles.

 

Oswald nods to them. While the cook slices the meat, he peeks at the guardsman’s face.

 

“You heal nicely,” he notes, startling the man. Oswald circles in front of his own face with his palm. “It’s actually strange that the doctor’s scars remained for weeks. Don’t you think?”

 

Hawk only nods, drinking again. The closest pirate snorts, patting him on the shoulder.

 

“That limb of Satan beat him good. I’m glad you threw him off the ship, Captain.”

 

Oswald arches his eyebrows. He asks in a flowing, low voice:

 

“Threw him off?”

 

“That’s what they say. You tied him up and threw him into the sea at dawn to drown. Is it just a rumor?”

 

“It’s not. That’s what I did.”

 

“Are you sure about that?” Hugh quietly asks.

 

Yan hands Oswald his plate. He doesn’t take it. He’s glaring at Hawk, who avoids his glance, turning away, holding onto the bottle. The flames of the candles paint golden locks into his hair, the shadow of the eyepatch is deep and endless.

 

“What does that mean, sailor?”

 

“He’ll come back.”

 

“Nonsense.”

 

“Trust me,” he grumbles, taking a swig again. He clears his throat. “He’s close. He didn’t leave us. I can feel his presence even now.”

 

Oswald snatches his plate from Yan’s hand. He turns on his heels, bending his spine so he can hiss into Hawk’s ears:

 

“If you can sense evil on board, beware: the doctor’s not the only one whose soul is tainted with sin.”

 

He flings the door open with his shoulder, leaving his sailors alone.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Stepping inside his cabin, he’s blinded by all the gas lamps. The room is perfused by their light. He closes the door behind himself, carefully, locking himself in. He’s still balancing the plate on his palm as his ferrety gaze glides to his bed.

 

His heart stops.

 

Ed is laying on the duvet, naked and panting. He turns to his back, sighing as if he’s already captured by nightmares. On his outstretched legs and hips, deep purple bruises are pulsing like breathing galaxies. Oswald swallows dry, presuming the worst.

 

He was hit by Galavan’s guns.

 

Oswald lurks closer on soft tiptoes. He slides his dinner on the table, unable to even look at it. His hunger is completely gone. He wobbles to his bed, getting closer to Ed. He’s silent and invisible like a ghost. He grabs the carved pillar of the bed, stooping above him.

 

The wood creaks.

 

Ed twitches. He gasps and flings his arm to grip his wrist. Oswald takes his hand, entwining their fingers. He slowly sits beside him.

 

“Shh,” he murmurs, his voice is velvety and calm. “Relax. It’s just me.”

 

Ed glances up at him, eyes misty. He parts and moves his lips, unable to make a sound. Oswald tsks.

 

“Don’t speak.”

 

“My Captain-”

 

“I said don’t speak.”

 

Ed’s grip loosens, and Oswald lets him slide his fingers up to his neck. Ed’s thumb caresses him on the cheek.

 

“Rest up.”

 

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

“I know.”

 

“No. No, you don’t know.” Ed gulps, his jaw trembles. Oswald bites his lower lip, stroking Ed’s cold skin, seeking his bruises. As he presses them with his fingertips, Ed sighs, deeply and wantonly. He chains Oswald’s glance to his. He breathes: “It’s been so long.”

 

“You’re talking nonsense, Ed. You’re hurt and tired. Rest for a spell.”

 

“Stay with me.”

 

“I have to inform you that you’re lying in my bed once again. I couldn’t leave you here, even if I wanted to.”

 

Ed chuckles. He hugs Oswald close by his waist. His hair is in his face, sticking to his lips, damp and tousled.

 

“Stay with me,” he asks him again.

 

Oswald sniffs and draws back. He stumbles to his feet to take his clothes off, turning away. He can feel Ed’s melting gaze, slithering through him, burning his skin.

 

Oswald blushes. He clears his throat to warn himself, to silence his heart, silence the throbbing in his ears. 

 

He tosses his clothes onto the table, peeking behind. Ed’s glance reaches his face and eyes, wreathing into his. His smile is tender, his eyes are still hazy.

 

“Come here.”

 

Oswald grabs the duvet and flaps a hand for Ed to make space. He crawls next to him, wrapping both of them up. Ed is gazing hard at him, motionless and calm. It freezes Oswald’s blood, rippling with slippery doubt. He reckoned on Ed’s desires, waiting for him to crawl above him and take him.

 

He doesn’t move.

 

Oswald nestles closer, longing for the warmth of Ed’s body, and he finally touches him: Ed curls his arm around his waist, pulling him close until their skin stick together. His amazement seems honest when Oswald smoothes his hair out of his face and softly kisses him.

 

Ed kisses back. Oswald takes his cold tongue in his mouth, moaning when Ed’s lips caress his, when their teeth clash. Ed hugs him tighter, entwining their legs. He strokes Oswald’s scapulae with trembling fingertips.

 

Oswald draws back, slightly panting. The amber irises lock him up.

 

 

“How many more secrets do you have?”

 

“Countless,” Ed whispers.

 

“I want them all.”

 

“I’ll tell you everything.” Ed’s lips are on his forehead, kissing him as a promise and blessing. “I swear.”

 

“I’ll hold you to your word.”

 

“Ask me the right questions, and I’ll give you honest answers.”

 

“If only I could shoot you through the heart again. It would be useless, but so satisfying.”

 

Ed giggles, and keeps stroking his back, carefully and tenderly.

 

“I knew you liked it. I’m sorry for that. It must’ve been frightening.”

 

“Not as much as the thought of you staying alive.”

 

“I’ve been told that before.”

 

“Aren’t you appealing.”

 

Ed beams at him. He weakens, blink by blink. His eyelashes flutter. They share every heavy breath, every beat of their hearts. Oswald is watching Ed with parted lips, adoring his relief when he opens his eyes and looks at him again. Ed embraces him like he could slip away at any moment. Oswald swallows dry, melting into his touch.

 

He whispers:

 

“Go to sleep, for God’s sake.”

 

Ed sighs, deeply and amenably, closing his eyes. He moves up so he can rest his jaw on the top of Oswald’s head. He’s already numb and rested when he breathes:

 

“As you wish, my Captain.”

 

His voice is playful and veiled.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald wakes up with numbed muscles and cramped limbs. The dreamless sleep cruelly throws him up, and Oswald claws into the duvet and shoots his eyes open.

 

Beams of sunlight blind him, crossing the bed, burning his face. Oswald blinks rapidly to come to his senses, vaguely hugging nothing but the hazy air.

 

He rolls to his back and clenches his fists. He hears swishing of clothes, and the sunlight hides behind a lanky silhouette. Ed leans above him, his features and smile are settled and bright. He doesn’t wear his glasses.

 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

 

Oswald grumbles, staggering to his elbows. His spine sticks to the board of the bed.

 

“What’s the time?”

 

“It’s only dawning. Did I wake you up?”

 

Oswald grunts again to lewdly protest. He closes his eyes with a tormented sigh.

 

“Are you feeling better?”

 

“I’m feeling splendid.” Ed snuggles down on the bed, bending his right leg under himself. “You slept well, I hope?”

 

“Are you aware of your sleeping behavior? If you were, you wouldn’t ask.”

 

“I’m sorry for the trouble I caused you.”

 

“You caused me several bruises and a sleepless night. How are you planning to make up for them?”

 

Ed chuckles, and Oswald is staring at him with swollen eyes. He puckers his lips but he can’t stop himself from grabbing Ed’s jaw and pulling him to his lips.

 

He fights out a tender kiss.

 

“How about you redeem yourself with telling me your secrets? You gave me your word.”

 

“And you gave me yours.” Ed tilts his head, so Oswald’s palm slips to his shoulder. He leans to Oswald’s neck to bite into him. He mutters with his skin on his teeth: “I can do to you anything I want.”

 

Ed’s tongue is hazy and hot as he follows the path of the artery, licking his skin. As he bites into his earlobe, Oswald sucks his lips to hold his voice back. Ed draws back, peeking down at him.

 

“Do you regret that you promised me that?” he demands, voice soft. Oswald stares into his eyes: his irises are sparkling dark, making him look alien. Oswald wishes for the amber, the unholy pupils, the milky eyelids. In these eyes, there’s nothing but dread and steely volition, dipped in wrath.

 

Oswald snorts.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Are you being honest with me?”

 

“I am,” he spits, and pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is raspier than before. “What are you planning to do with me?”

 

Ed’s wide smile is burning. He awkwardly shrugs.

 

“I’ll make you fall in love with me.”

 

Oswald sharply snickers, dropping his head. As he peeks down, he catches Ed’s offended grimace, the depth of his dark glance. Oswald shakes his head.

 

“Please.”

 

“You can believe me. That’s all I’ve wanted since I first saw you.”

 

“On the night of the rebellion.” Oswald squints. “I saw your eyes.”

 

“And I saw your soul.”

 

“You don’t say,” Oswald mumbles, and brushes Ed aside to scramble out of bed.

 

He avoids his significant glance as he steps to the chest, rummaging some clothes up. He grabs his tights, too, kicked off last night. He limps to his dressing table. While he puts the clothes on, he barks back:

 

“To answer the order I gave you, you’ve followed me to Nassau. Why did you meet me at Falcone’s  mansion? Why did you decide to flee on my ship as a stowaway?”

 

“Out of passion.” Oswald hums, feeling Ed’s presence as he steps behind him. “May I help you with-?”

 

“With answering my questions, of course. You’re flagrantly enjoying yourself, luring me into your trap.”

 

“Why of course,” Ed whispers. Oswald can hear him smile; it’s the wet sound of drawn meat. “As I looped the string of fate around us, I made you believe in us. The only way of survival for you and me is to be together and stay together.”

 

“And you only owe yourself for that.” Oswald sighs.

 

“I wouldn’t say so.” Ed reaches out, running his fingertips over Oswald’s bare waist. “Let me.”

 

Oswald twitches, lips split into a wild grin. He closes his eyes, lifting his arm so Ed can pull his lacy shirt on.

 

“How could I say no to you?” he murmurs sourly, breathing through his nose. “I’ve already sold myself.”

 

“I’ve told you before: I want you to want me.”

 

“Behold the illusion of fate.”

 

Ed slides his palm to Oswald’s shoulder to turn him. Oswald doesn’t fall his eyelashes, but Ed doesn’t return his look. He buttons his shirt, his glance flashes from button to button.

 

“I thought you trusted me,” he croaks, voice weak.

 

Oswald sniffs and tiptoes to press a kiss on Ed’s neck.

 

“When did I ever say that?” he purrs, curling his arms around Ed’s waist. Ed stares down at him with veiled eyes, his fingers trembling on Oswald’s neck. “When I looked upon you as a mere man, as something I couldn’t figure out, I feared your secrets. Now that I know you’re the serpent I’ve chained to myself, my blood is a weapon. I control you. I own you. I would entrust my life to you, but not my heart.”

 

“Do you think I would break it?”

 

“You’d cherish it.”

 

“Allow me.”

 

“Huh.” Oswald leaves his mouth open, inviting. He leans closer for trembling kisses and swallowed breath. “Keep out of sight in here and wait for me. If my crew knows you’ve come back, they’ll hang you.”

 

“They can’t kill me.”

 

Oswald scoffs, drawing away.

 

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald is circling around the masts, roaming through the decks and stairs with a veiled expression. He’s lost in thought, his orders are delayed and mumbled.

 

Around noon, Selina reports that she can see the blurs of Chincoteague Island on the horizon. They’ll reach Gotham in a week, if the winds are graceful to them.

 

The city’s closeness sets his mind at ease, but not his heart and soul. His glance flutters toward his cabin; in the corner of his eye, he keeps seeing Ed’s locked up ghost. His key sticks to his waist, burning and itching, and he wishes nothing but to tear it off of his belt. The responsibility that chains him to Ed, the weight of his every decision is a hot stone, slowly sinking down his throat.

 

The guardsman’s words are throbbing in his ear; it’s the ungrounded fright that makes Oswald worried. Suspicion is a cunning beast. It only takes a spark to start a wildfire. The guardsman’s dread can plague them all, one by one, until they’re sticky with doubt, searing them.

 

Oswald wishes for another ship to pillage - then, he could set them all free once they reach Gotham. He doesn’t want to keep anyone on board who’s not comfortable with the cursed brigantine. Their cowardliness is a cesspit, its smell weakening the others as well.

 

If he’ll be able to set sail again, once he gets rid of half of the crew-

 

Everything that’ll happen after they reach Gotham is a mystery for Oswald.

 

This upsets him more than anything.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The night is falling when Oswald pushes the cabin’s door in, shutting it with his boot’s heel. He takes a deep breath.

 

Ed’s lanky figure is lit by the flames of the candles. He’s sitting behind the mahogany table, turning over the pages of Oswald’s book. He glances up at him with a waiting smile, then closes the book, using his bony index finger as a tassel.

 

“You know, this voluntary exile is far more delightful than I’ve thought.”

 

“You don’t say,” Oswald replies, tone empty and raw. He takes his coat off, tossing it in front of Ed. As the coat hits the tabletop, the flames flicker. Oswald peeks at the cover of the book, musing: “Can you speak German?”

 

“A little bit. Terranean languages are all alike.”

 

“Says the man who chats with sirens.”

 

Ed giggles, sinking the book’s corner into his lips.

 

“I’ve had enough time, my Captain. I have to leave thousands of years behind.”

 

Oswald hums. He unbuckles his weapons like they were mere jewelry. He hops on the tabletop, wiggling his feet towards Ed. He drops his head, his foot grazes Ed’s knee.

 

“Do you wish to forget?” he whispers, flashing his crooked grin. “I know what you need.”

 

He reaches between his legs, pulling the drawer out. Ed is staring at him, unsure and lost, and Oswald crinkles his nose to not laugh. He takes a bottle of rum by its neck, shaking it: the bottle is only half full.

 

“My memory failed me. That’s all I can offer you.”

 

Oswald bites into the cork, tearing it out with a thump. He spits it out, handing the bottle to Ed. He knits his brows.

 

“Does alcohol even have any effect on you?”

 

Ed shrugs and grimaces as he swigs.

 

“Drinking is more difficult for me, I have to admit.”

 

Oswald sniffs, curving his fingers to take back the bottle. He throws his head back as he drinks, licking his lips clean. He peeks back at Ed, nails clacking on the bottle.

 

“How does your body bear itself in this human form? You cannot be killed, that much I know.”

 

“I can be,” Ed confesses in a toneless voice. He rests his sharp jaw on his palm. “It simply takes as much effort as if you wanted to kill the beast inside.”

 

“Could I kill you with more guns, cannon balls shot directly at you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Could I kill you with slicing your head off your neck?”

 

“Yes, probably. I’ve never been beheaded.”

 

Oswald hums, then starts whispering with fallen eyelashes:

 

" _Can you pull in Leviathan with a fishhook or tie down its tongue with a rope?Can you put a cord through its noseor pierce its jaw with a hook?Will it keep begging you for mercy? Will it speak to you with gentle words? Will it make an agreement with you_ _for you to take it as your slave for life?_ "

 

Ed grins, then suddenly saddens. He visibly swallows, the corner of his mouth twitches. As he speaks up, his voice is trembling:

 

“I’m not immortal, my Captain. Death awaits me as well.”

 

Ed lowers his eyelashes, reaching out to ask for the bottle. Oswald is staring at him, wondering, as he gives him the rum. The hazy air feels cold now, like the warmth was sucked out of the cabin.

 

As Ed drinks, Oswald inches closer. He puts his palm on Ed’s shoulder, almost subconsciously. Ed slightly startles under his touch as he strokes him, earning a breathless sigh.

 

" _If you lay a hand on it,"_ Oswald softly goes on, _" you will remember the struggle and never do it again.Any hope of subduing it is false; the mere sight of it is overpowering.No one is fierce enough to rouse it. Who then is able to stand against me?Who has a claim against me that I must pay? E_ _verything under heaven belongs to me._ "

 

There's a short pause before Oswald mumbles again:

 

“Come here.”

 

And Ed glances up him with a questioning look.

 

Oswald doesn’t wait for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to Ed’s. Ed’s shock is still flickering between them, even when Oswald cups his cheek, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb. He forces Ed’s lips apart with his tongue, and Ed finally kisses back, his throaty moan trembling in Oswald’s mouth.

 

Oswald stretches his leg out to kick him in the back, making Ed scramble on his feet and step between Oswald’s thighs.

 

The bottle knocks on the tabletop. Oswald’s rugged breath makes him sniffle, and Ed finally moves his hands up his waist, fingers slithering under his shirt to touch the bare skin. His fingertips are cold and vivid, plowing over his crooked spine.

 

Oswald draws back. His eyelashes flutter, and he keeps his mouth open, cramped fingers sinking into Ed’s hips.

 

“Hurt me,” he mutters. “I want you to.”

 

Ed is still panting, staring at him with dilated pupils. He’s awed and dazzled, making Oswald curl his legs around Ed’s waist, luring him closer.

 

“I want you, Ed,” he repeats. “Give yourself to me.”

 

Ed breathes a weak and thrilled  _ yes _ . His little kisses burn on Oswald’s lips and cheeks and neck. Ed’s palms stick to his ass, pulling him up in his arms. Oswald keeps asking for his kisses as Ed tumbles towards the bed with him. He gets caught in the baldachin, blindly and abruptly. They flop into the carmine dunes of the duvet, chuckling like madmen.

 

Ed gets on his elbows, grinding against Oswald with a slow thrust, speeding up. The mellow circles of his hips and his sharp little bites boil Oswald’s blood in his groin. His wheezing noises are choking and high. He pushes his crotch up, again and again, melting into Ed’s rhythm. His blunt fingernails scratch Ed’s shirt, tearing the cloth.

 

Ed stops for a moment to mime Oswald’s movements and tear his shirt off. He straightens to pull of his own ragged shirt and toss it away. Oswald does the same, letting the cloth hit the ground, and leans up for another kiss. Ed rejects him; he shoves his palm to Oswald’s chest, shoving him back to the bed. He keeps him motionless with nails and will, and Oswald doesn’t mind. He lets Ed smooth his tongue all over his naked scars. Every lick and rough bite feels like he’s being cut open. As Ed reaches his hips, Oswald moans and thrust himself up again.

 

Ed grunts, disapprovingly, the noise bubbling up from his stomach. He bites into Oswald through his pants.

 

Oswald whimpers, swearing under his breath. He dips fingers into Ed’s dark hair, unknotting the chenille. Ed’s tousled locks curl around his fingers, warm and soft.

 

“You have to give me absolute control over you,” Ed purrs, head between Oswald’s legs. “ _ Can _ you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“ _ Yes _ ,” Oswald barks.

 

Ed leans on his elbows above Oswald’s head, trapping him, seducing him with his smile. He smudges a kiss to the corner of his mouth, snatching his head when Oswald wants to bite into his lips. He sinks his body lower - he is pulsing with warmth and anticipation, and it feels like they’re melting into each other.

 

“Let me tell you what I meant by that,” Ed coos, his hot words sinking down on Oswald’s throat. He grins. “I want to dispossess you from your body. I want your flesh and heart to be alien to you as you’re screaming and trembling under me. I want to savor your every breath. I want to bless you and violate you and tear you apart. Will you let me?”

 

Oswald grunts with rage:

 

“Shall I summon your cock with my blood, too?”

 

Ed grabs his wrists and pin them above his head, making him gasp. 

 

He bites hard into his collarbones, sharp teeth almost  _ pestering  _ his skin. Oswald feels his burning blood dripping as he keeps him close with entwined legs. His cries are hoarse and weak. Ed’s teeth mark him with deep purple and smudged scarlet, and Oswald writhes and throws his head back.

 

Ed’s closeness, the sweet and harsh pain make Oswald fidgety and much too eager. Ed runs his fingers through his hair, sitting back on his heels. He hooks his slender fingers into Oswald’s pants, pulling them off. Oswald bends his knees to help him, and spits into Ed’s enchanted face:

 

“Bring oil from the drawer. And get undressed. I want to see you.”

 

Ed simply throws Oswald’s pants and stockings away, nodding. It takes him three or four broad steps to reach the table, his belt  jingling as he shakes his pants off his leg. Oswald completely forgets himself, staring at Ed’s ass and slender thighs.

 

Ed grabs a slim crystal bottle, carved pin in its mouth. Honey-like olive oil wreaths in it as Ed tilts it, dripping the oil on two fingers.

 

He kneels onto the bed. Oswald runs his glance over him, spreading his legs. Ed bends his spine, lips and nose touching the thick hair between Oswald’s thighs. Oswald bites his lower lip, feeling the circles of Ed’s tongue and fingertips at the same time: he licks across Oswald’s cock, kissing the tip before he takes it into his mouth, lewdly sinking into him with a slender finger. Oswald tightens around him, his spine and toes curve.

 

“Oh my,” Ed mumbles with his cock on his tongue, peeking up at him. “You’re gorgeous, my Captain.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

Ed’s laugh vibrates through his shaft. He dips another finger inside, nails scratching the skin of his ass. He seems to be pondering something, stealing his warmth and scent as he draws back. The waves of his fingers slow down.

 

“I speak the truth every time I praise you. How you’ve charmed me, I don’t know, but-”

 

Oswald cuts in, grunting:

 

“Do something with your mouth that’s not talking.”

 

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

 

“You might as well suck me off. Just come back.”

 

He reaches down, fingers curling around Ed’s neck to pull him close. Ed lies on him as much as he can, fingers still slipping and circling in and out. Ed kisses him deep and hurried. Oswald is writhing softly under him, clawing across Ed’s back. Ed moans into his mouth and Oswald can feel his twitching cock, pressed hard into his abdomen. He draws one hand back to grab it, thumb circling over the flushed tip.

 

Ed shuts his eyes, biting into his lips, rumbling impatiently. He draws back his oiled fingers and seizes Oswald’s knees, prizing his legs open to finally thrust his cock into him, cruel and rapid.

 

The throbbing pain flickers through Oswald. He cries out, neck arching and throwing his head into the pillows. He fists the duvet and pushes his heel into Ed’s waist to rouse him. Ed is pounding into him, mouth ajar to gasp for hazy air, he’s dazed and giddy. 

 

The wet sounds of their flesh and Oswald’s raspy moans are echoing on the walls. Ed swallows dry, glaring at him with overflowing rapture and devotion, amber irises flickering and burning.

 

Oswald’s trembling fingers release the duvet, hugging Ed’s neck to pull himself up into his lap. Ed crosses his ankles and grips Oswald’s waist. Oswald broken ankle is pulsing with pain. He grimaces, nestling on Ed, sinking himself down on his cock again. His forehead bumps into Ed’s as he starts moving again, up and down and up, pulling a fistful of Ed’s hair.

 

Ed leans in to kiss him. Oswald takes his cold tongue into his mouth, clinking their teeth together. Ed’s fingers crawl between their grazing bodies, entwining around Oswald’s cock.

 

Oswald hisses:

 

“Fuck-”

 

Ed’s grin is lazy and arrogant. With his free hand, he grabs Oswald’s hair to bend his head back, nibbling on his neck. His right hand slides around him to pleasure him.

 

“Scream for me,” Ed purrs into the flesh-colored teeth marks, biting into him again. Oswald writes, agonizing. “Scream my name when the pleasure flows through you. Mark me. Own me. Understand?”

 

Oswald doesn’t answer. Ed tightens his grip, making him whimper.

 

“Understand?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Ed lets him go, clawing into his ass to slip out of him, lift him and shove him hard to the wall. Oswald’s back smacks to the wooden planks, the pain pulsing in his spine. Ed keeps him in the air, squeezing him to the wall with his torso. 

 

“Listen to me,” Ed hisses. His hair sticks to his face, his grin is cunning and trembling. “Oh, my Captain. Are you denying yourself?”

 

“Shut your mouth already,” Oswald snarls. “Fuck me like any other whore and let it be done.”

 

Ed is louring at him.

 

“I know you can feel me. I’m already in your veins, under your skin. I’m every breath you take, I’m the scream on the tip of your tongue. Release me and take me back. That’s what you want, too.”

 

Oswald tries to reach for Ed’s cock, to guide it back into him. Ed doesn’t let him, slapping and pinning his wrists above his head.

 

“For heaven’s sake, Ed! I’m going to slice your dick off if you-”

 

“Tell me you want me. Tell me again.”

 

“How many times do I have to tell you?,” Oswald takes a deep breath, calming down. “Let me go. Now.”

 

“Why would I?”

 

“Because I need to touch your stupid face.”

 

Ed releases his wrists. Oswald tenderly cups his cheeks as he promised, looking deep into his eyes.

 

“I want you,” he mumbles, voice husky. “Touch me. Fuck me. Please.”

 

Ed kisses him deeply. He sinks back into Oswald, his cock warming him, tight and alluring. He’s fucking him with sharp but slow thrusts, his fingers wrapping around his cock again to find a new rhythm. He’s pampering and spoiling him, scattering his tiny kisses over Oswald’s cheek and lips.

 

Ed lifts him higher, chests pressed together tight. Oswald has to close his eyes and throw his head back, weakening and shivering. Ed licks across his neck, biting into his jaw. Oswald sighs, then tenses.

 

Ed notices that he’s close, so he changes their rhythm. Oswald snarls.

 

“I told you I wanted to violate you,” Ed whispers. “I won’t let you come until I make sure you know your place.”

 

“And where is that  _ place  _ exactly?”

 

“Under my control,” Ed purrs, biting into his lower lip. “Are you well aware of it yet? Or should I humiliate you a little more?”

 

Oswald wants to fight back, but as Ed starts fucking him harder,  he’s too close again. He swallows, tamely tensing more around Ed between his thrusts. Ed beams at him, and Oswald manages to say:

 

“I’m yours.”

 

He feels his pleasure bubbling up in his throat, a burning sensation climbs through his insides. He looks to Ed’s face; in his eyes, there’s misty hunger and worship.

 

Oswald’s dry lips part, his glance deepens into Ed’s as he comes with a raspy scream.

 

His sweaty body is shaking. He grabs Ed with his nails, and he can’t wash away his grin. He doesn’t recognize his own voice, it’s too broken and weak. Ed leans closer to lick into his mouth, and Oswald grins even wider and more trembling. He strokes Ed’s face, whispering:

 

“Ed.”

 

 

Oswald falls into the duvet again, ass upwards. Ed threw him on the bed, and now he’s laying down on him, sinking back into his tight warmth. He dips into him with all his weight, forcing him down.

 

His movements are even softer now, he’s almost motionless; every thrust hits Oswald deep and sweet.

 

Oswald’s muscles become numb as he wavers under him, turning his head left so they’re cheek to cheek. Ed’s little gasps are burning his skin, rising into huskier moans and wet rumbles as he’s getting close.

 

“Oh dear,” he mumbles into Oswald’s ear, making him twitch.

 

Oswald grins into the pillow.

 

“Release the beast,” he chuckles, and Ed burst into laughter.

 

He slips out of Oswald, quickly giving himself a few strokes, still laughing. Oswald can feel his hot semen, flaring over his skin as Ed comes with a giggling moan.

 

He falls back on him, out of breath, their bodies stick together. They’re both trembling with soundless laughter.

 

Ed kisses him on the lips, and Oswald closes his eyes.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Ed is standing naked in front of the windows. He dips the hand cloth into the water, squeezing the drops out of it. The lobes of moonlight cover him as he steps back to the bed, feather-footed.

 

Oswald is still laying on the bed, in the same pose as before. He peeks up at Ed, pouting sleepily.

 

Ed sits next to him, gently rubbing his skin. Drops of sweat shine on Oswald’s sharp vertebrae. Ed dries them up with his fingertips, and Oswald quivers.

 

“Excuse me,” Ed mumbles, and Oswald snorts.

 

“Please.” He turns to him while Ed covers his ass with the cloth, drying the marks he left. Oswald grins. “Take your time.”

 

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

 

“You’ve only been alive for thousands of years, Ed. Don’t decide so hastily.”

 

As Ed’s finished, Oswald rolls to his back. Ed stoops above him, his fallen hair hiding his face. In the shadows, Oswald sees dread and melancholy.

 

“I want to remember you like this,” Ed breathes wistfully. “I want to remember you laying on your back, still breathless, your skin flushed and pale, your eyes hazy and elated with pleasure. Craving more. Craving me.”

 

Oswald arches his eyebrows.

 

“Do you wish to take leave? When I order you to leave, you’ll make sure to stay on the ship.”

 

Ed doesn’t reply. He licks his lips, turning away. Oswald sits up, tilting his head with settled features.

 

His voice is surprisingly calm as he speaks:

 

“You’ve got what you wanted. Now, it’s my turn. Tell me what you’re hiding from me.”

 

“I remember my oath, my Captain. I’m not protesting because I don’t want to keep my word, but believe me - this secret is not something you wish to know.”

 

“Let me decide that myself.”

 

Ed stares at him. Oswald looks back with crinkled nose, eyebrows arch again to hurry him.

 

Ed’s words spout with a sigh:

 

“I’m dying.”

 

Oswald’s blood freezes in his veins.

 

“I’m near my end, my Captain. That’s why I wish to reach Gotham, that’s why I stayed on board even if you didn’t want to see me here. I need to get there as soon as possible.”

 

“Wait,” Oswald whispers wearily, eyes shut. “Wait. As a beast, you could-” Oswald clips his words. He stares at Ed. “You’re weak as the Leviathan. That’s why the guns injured you, that’s why you fled on my ship in a human body.”

 

Ed nods. His smile is gloomy.

 

“Correct. I needed you. I need you.”

 

“It was me who sent you back to the sea. You got shot because of me. I was weakening you.”

 

“Don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t necessary for you to summon me with your blood - your frightened sigh is enough for me to throw myself into the waves.”

 

“Don’t do it again. Understand?”

 

“You can’t ask me for that.”

 

Oswald waves his hand, puckering his lips.

 

“You told me you’re from Gotham. Is that why you want to go back? For the last time?”

 

In Ed’s amber eyes, the moonlight breaks.

 

“My story is more circuitous than that. I’m looking for the witch who gave me this human body in times past. I hope she’ll be able to lock me inside of it forever, so I can  outsmart death and live another generation. That’s all I can ask of life.”

 

Ed lowers his eyelashes and wraps himself in silence. Oswald can see that his next words are on the tip of his tongue, waiting for him to open his mouth.

 

Oswald nestles closer, hugging his waist with his arm. Ed turns to him and Oswald steals a momentary and bittersweet kiss.

 

“My Captain-”

 

“Mm?”

 

“If we reach the shores in time, and the witch succeeds - would you live our remaining years with me?”

 

Oswald swallows. His arm is still around Ed, their lips are just a breath away. He stares up into the amber eyes, letting them ensnare him, devour him. Ed is still with him, he feels his scent and breath and warmth.

 

He whispers:

 

“If I leave you, you’ll never make me fall in love with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> Stay tuned for Chapter 6.


	6. Sacrifice

“How much time do you have left?”

 

Oswald’s arm is still around Ed’s waist, his bare legs are stretched out on the bed. Ed is turned away from him, showing his profile as he is staring into the void in front of him.

 

Hearing Oswald’s voice makes him twitch. Oswald can feel the tormented waves of shivering blowing goosebumps all over Ed’s body.

 

“I don’t know for sure,” Ed says slowly, twirling the words in his mouth before he speaks. “Maybe a week. Maybe a month. Maybe tomorrow, when you wake up, only my body will lay next to you, cold and dead, and Hell will have already taken back my soul.”

 

“Ed.”

 

“Night after night, I believe I come to my end. Sometimes I feel giddy - pain flickers through my nerves, throbbing deep inside my skull. It feels like I’m being ripped open. I can’t move, my every limb is cramped, and it takes away my breath. The mortal fear is constant, and I sense strange things everytime I look into the sea.” Ed pauses, then clears his throat. “Excuse me. I got carried away.”

 

Oswald draws back, the dark duvet rustling under him. He sticks his back to the wooden planks, huddling under the duvet. He reaches out his right arm, inviting.

 

“Come here.”

 

Ed obeys right away. Oswald hugs him close under the duvet, pulling Ed’s bony back closer to his chest until their skin touches. Ed tenses under him and releases his muscles with a deep sigh. His cold fingers crawl up to Oswald’s hand, caressing him.

 

Oswald kisses into his tousled hair.

 

“I’ll take you to Gotham in time,” he breathes. “I promise.”

 

Ed doesn’t reply. His breath is wavering under Oswald’s arm, deep and calm.

 

His sleepy sighs and rustling moans bring promises of sweet dreams to Oswald. He blinks with heavy eyelashes, then closes his eyes.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Four days pass and Ed is sinking rapidly.

 

Washed in dull twilight, Oswald limps through the domed hallway. His crooked figure is burnt by the gas lamps, his shadow dousing them all. Between his trembling palms, he holds a copper pot, filled with splashing water.

 

The noise tears into his bones. Ed’s moans are leaking through the walls.

 

Every step Oswald takes is weaker than the previous one. The sweaty, heavy air feels solid and deep. A warning pain is pulsing in his broken ankle; his rapid heartbeat keeps hitting his ribs.

 

He lifts his elbow, carefully, to open the door. Some water splashes to the floor and Oswald hisses.

 

The unworldly noise rises.

 

Oswald closes the door with his crooked ankle, to shut the death rattle inside with him. He stares at the bed.

 

Ed’s skin is burning with white flames of the Moon. Feverish drops of sweat wheeze, the cramped muscles make the drops waver. His breath is weak and stridulous, just like the dreigh moans and the painful whimpers.

 

Oswald sets the pot next to the bed as he slowly sits down next to Ed. He takes his coat and vest off, and rolls the sleeves of his shirt up.

 

“Ed,” he croaks. Ed doesn’t reply, so Oswald raises his voice a bit: “Ed.”

 

Ed looks up at him, shivering. His hair is in his face, his eyes are misty, deep like the darkest night. He doesn’t seem to recognize Oswald. He whimpers again, clenching his fists.

 

Oswald takes the towel he left at the end of the bed, dipping it into the water.

 

“Look at me,” he spits, pressing the damp towel to Ed’s forehead.

 

Ed stares at him with his glassy eyes, sucking his lips before he speaks up, voice raspy and broken:

 

“Make it stop.”

 

Oswald freezes.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop-” Ed’s words fade into an empty mantra. He grabs Oswald by his forearm, dragging him closer. Oswald can feels his sharp nails digging deep into his skin. “I’m begging you, please, make it stop.”

 

Oswald snarls at him to hide his own fright:

 

“Pull yourself together.”

 

Ed’s pupils are dilating, blindly sliding up and up. He is glaring at the ceiling, his scream is a hurt beast’s screech. The panic, like a cutlass, smites Ed. His whole body is writhing with agony, his spine curves and smacks back down to the duvet.

 

Oswald tries to call him, grab him, calm him. Nothing helps. Ed flings his arm, hitting Oswald, and the pain finally prods him to act. He’s well aware of his own strength and dread when he holds his palm out and slaps Ed.

 

After the snap of skin against skin, there’s silence.

 

Then, Ed gasps for air.

 

“Ed. Ed. Listen to me. Look at me. Look at me.” Oswald roughly cups his cheeks. Something finally sparks up in Ed’s dull eyes. Oswald stoops above him, smoothing his burning cheeks. He whispers: “Don’t you fucking die on me, don’t you dare die until I’m here with you. Understood?”

 

Ed’s chest is heaving. Even when his face is peaky, he breathlessly chuckles. His shiny lips part, his voice is even weaker than before:

 

“I can’t make it.”

 

“Yes you fucking can.”

 

“Please-”

 

“Say my name.”

 

“My-”

 

“Say. My. Name.”

 

Ed closes his eyes with a deep sigh. When he blinks again, he grips Oswald’s hand, pulling it on his chest, above his still beating heart.

 

“Oswald.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

They are wrapped in cloudy darkness by the time Oswald can completely calm Ed down by whispering sweet nothings and deepening his nails into his skin.

 

The cold towel slides across Ed’s feverish chest. He hisses. Oswald entwines his free fingers around Ed’s neck to keep him motionless, while he slides the towel lower.

 

Ed whispers:

 

“Forgive me.”

 

Oswald sniffs.

 

“For what?”

 

And lets his hand slide lower to the valley of Ed’s hips. He tears his glance from Ed’s groin, looking into his eyes.

 

“I made you live through my pain. It must be a horrible cross for you to bear. I know it is for me.”

 

Oswald tightens his grip around Ed’s neck.

 

“Who do you think I am?” he asks threateningly.

 

Ed gasps for air, and Oswald lets him go with a firm push.

 

“I’ve never been carried away by the misery before,” Ed croaks. “I’ve never lost control over my body, nor my senses, nor my consciousness.” He swallows dry. “I think the end is actually near.”

 

“We’ll reach Gotham in three days. Until then, you rest up, and you’ll be fine. Be honest with me now. What makes you so weak?”

 

Ed blinks at him, his lips part.

 

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not an idiot. You’re fading away, and it’s not about your sickness only. When did you-” Oswald knits his brows, looking for the right words. “When did you feed last?”

 

“I swallowed Galavan’s men.”

 

“It wasn’t enough.” Oswald doesn’t ask, but Ed’s eyelashes flutter, making him sigh. “Tell me about it, for God’s sake.”

 

Ed giggles.

 

“What can you possibly do? Every ship around us disappeared without leaving a trace.”

 

“I’ll sacrifice someone.”

 

Ed is glaring at him. His arm and back tense to reach out to him, dismay is crystal clear in his eyes. Oswald snarls, shoving him back to the bed by his neck.

 

“Don’t move.”

 

“Are you being honest?”

 

Oswald chuckles, throwing the towel into the pot. He dries his hands on his pants and scrambles to his feet. He turns his back to Ed.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

He can’t see Oswald’s crooked grin painted by the despair that vibrates in his voice.

 

Oswald throws back, calmly and maliciously:

 

“It’s supper time, my dear.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

The brat can’t be more than fourteen years old. He’s an unnoted, scrawny lad, the little brother of a dead gunman. They were both orphans. The man was killed by Galavan’s crew, his corpse (throat sliced) was floating on the surface behind them, the moonlight burnt out in his foggy eyes.

 

No one cares about the brat anymore.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald lures the boy into his cabin, promising soothing fellowship and brandy for his broken heart. The boy is mourning his brother so deeply he doesn’t even query Oswald’s affability.

 

Oswald opens the door, giving the boy way to step into the cabin first.

 

The door closes. Oswald turns the key.

 

The lights go out. Then, one gas lamp flares up.

 

Oswald shoves the boy towards the bed; he shouts “ _Demon!_ ” as soon as he sees Ed. Ed grabs him by the arm to pull him closer, then forces all his fingers into the boy’s open mouth. He pushes them deeper, and the boy tries to bite into his wrist. Ed pries his jaws open.

 

Oswald steps closer with heartsome inquiry. He leans against the mahogany bed frame, crossing his arms.

 

The boy is flinching and wailing, fighting for his miserable life. He tries to scream and scratch and bite, but he can’t free himself from Ed’s steel grip.

 

Ed peeks at Oswald as he pries the boy’s jaw even wider. The boy’s struggling whimpers and rattles fade into choking, then the noise is overcome by the cracking of torn meat and breaking bones, rustling like wildfire.

 

The boy’s last whimper dries in his throat. The blood is pelting down on the floor in heavy and fat drops. Ed’s face seems to melt in the dim lights. Oswald is watching him as he fades into something else - it’s not the beast, not entirely - as he bites into the distorted face with sharp teeth. The bloodfall seethes.

 

Sloppy sounds vibrate off of the walls. Ed is slurping the boy’s soul, greedily and hungrily, he’s sucking it from his flesh and veins and throat and skin, sucking him dry and grey in no time.

 

He draws back, chest heaving. He’s wearing his human mask again, covered in dark blood like a veil.

 

He releases the corpse’s teeth. The boy drops on the floor with a clammy thump. As Oswald steps over it, it crumbles into dust.

 

Oswald attacks Ed between two rattling breaths. He claws into his shoulders, leaning down for a rough kiss of clashing teeth and biting lips.

 

The blood is still hot in his mouth; it tastes metallic and salty. He dries the drops from Ed’s mouth with his tongue, swallowing deep his soft moan. He looks down at him with fallen eyelashes: Ed’s amber irises are finally glowing under him.

 

“Did I satisfy your every need?” he asks, whispering.

 

“His was an old soul. I’ll be fine.”

 

“I asked...” Oswald bites his lower lip, pushing Ed back on the bed. Ed looks at him with heaving chest as he crawls onto his lap. “If I satisfied your _every_ need.”

 

Oswald’s knees pin Ed’s hips down. He sinks down on him, slowly, and their groins grind together.

 

Ed moans, then snickers.

 

“Aren’t you bewitching, my wicked Captain.”

 

“My name, Ed.”

 

“Oswald.”

 

“Good,” Oswald purrs, leaning over Ed with his palms. He thrusts his hips forward to force another sound from Ed. Their cocks touch through Oswald’s pants, already hard and pulsing. “Can you feel me?”

 

Ed breathes:

 

“Yes.”

 

“If I fuck you right now, will you be alright?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Don’t lie to me now.”

 

“I’m not. And I want you more than anything.” Oswald grins and Ed adds, mumbling: “Kiss me.”

 

Their kiss is feverish and hurried. Oswald takes his shirt off, throwing it behind him. His splintery nails scratch over Ed’s chest. Oswald draws away, sitting back: his nails follow a path, clawing Ed’s abdomen and hips, reaching his crotch.

 

He peeks up at him, lewdly pouting.

 

“I have to tell you something,” he mutters, sliding his fingertips over Ed’s cock. His eyelashes cast deep shadows on his face. “You’re maddening. Arousing. You’re driving me crazy. If you give yourself to me, I won’t be gentle. I’m going to fuck you like the beast you are. Will you let me?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

Oswald reaches his fingertips to Ed’s neck, soaking up the warm blood. His fingers are clammy it as he stoops over Ed’s head again, smirking.

 

“Spread your legs for me.”

 

Ed obeys, and Oswald slides his fingers between his thighs. Oswald buries his face in the crook of Ed’s neck, biting the rigid waves of his throat. His fingertips are circling on his skin. When he roughly sinks one finger inside of Ed, he writhes and moans.

 

“You greedy little slut,” Oswald breathes with Ed’s skin on his teeth. “You’re whining for my cock, even on your deathbed. I like that. Have you ever been fucked, Ed?”

 

Ed gasps as Oswald pushes another wet finger inside, moving them sweet and sharp. Ed tenses around his fingers. His arching body sticks to his as he whimpers, skin slippery from the blood. He clings to Oswald’s waist, nails tearing into him, clenching his teeth and shutting his eyes.

 

“No,” he manages to say, visibly swallowing. “Never.”

 

“Poor thing,” Oswald chuckles, shoving his fingers deeper, parting them. He purrs into Ed’s open mouth: “I’m ruthless. I’m going to destroy you.”

 

“ _Please_.”

 

Oswald draws back, kneeling above Ed’s hips. He pulls his fingers out. Ed is glaring at him, his glance is hot- melting- as he slides it over his drooping shoulders and blood-smudged chin and lips. Oswald crinkles his pants down, twitching cock popping out.

 

He reaches out with his left palm to lay it on Ed’s neck. The blood covers him completely, like a dark glove. He leans over the bed, blindly scraping around for the crystal bottle they’ve left by the frame, and pours too much oil on his fingers. He’s looking Ed deep in the eye as he entwines his dirty fingers around his own cock, softly stroking himself: his skin is flushed, bloody scarlet, the oil is dripping and shining.

 

Ed mumbles:

 

“Oh my.”

 

Oswald sharply breathes through his nose.

 

“I’ll make you scream that, over and over.”

 

He grins maliciously as he gets off of him. His teeth are glowing between his dark lips like tiny pearls.

 

He crawls between Ed’s legs, kneeling, slapping Ed’s thigh to make him spread his legs wider. As he looks at him, laid out on his back, chest heaving and eyes burning, Oswald’s insides knot and his throat dries. On the tip of his tongue, there’s the right question: _are you alright?_ He can’t force himself to say it out loud; instead, he barks:

 

“Ready?”

 

Ed licks his lips, beaming at him.

 

“Yes.”

 

Oswald nestles between Ed’s legs, gripping his hips. Ed lifts himself up to take Oswald’s cock as he thrusts into him, cruel and hasty, making him cry out. Their skin claps together, like waves splashing on rocks.

 

Oswald starts fucking him right away, helplessly, with merciless, raw thrusts. Ed’s screams fade into raspy chuckles and breathless grunts, his legs slick to Oswald’s crooked back. He sinks his nails into Oswald’s thigh.

 

Oswald feels giddy and numb. Ed is tight around his cock, pulsing with warmth, squeezing him hard and firm, his whole body shivering. Oswald puts his hand on Ed’s neck, pinning him down, leaning on him.

 

Ed’s laugh dries out as he chokes under Oswald’s grip. Oswald releases him when he starts writhing, and they are grin at each other, breathless and mad.

 

Oswald slides his palm lower, finding its way between Ed’s hip bones. He runs his fingertips through the hair, over his flushed cock. He can see Ed tense, biting into his lower lip. His whimpers are more painful and coarse.

 

“Touch yourself.”

 

Ed obeys without hesitation. Oswald is pondering the slender fingers, entwining around Ed’s cock, slithering dry and rough. Oswald matches his own rhythm to Ed’s, finding a pattern, fucking him in sync with his hand’s movement.

 

Oswald’s weapons are still clattering on his belt. He takes out a small knife, twirling it between his fingers before he lifts it up, pressing the cold blade to his own lips. He feels the blade sink into the flesh of his lips, slightly cutting himself.

 

Ed looks up at him, mouthing:

 

“Yes... _yes_.”

 

Oswald turns the blade, licking it slowly and temptingly, looking deep into Ed’s eyes.

 

“Do you want me to cut you open?” he breathes. “Do you want me to slice through your throat? To hollow out your beating heart?”

 

“Anything,” Ed gulps, raising his chin to expose his throat. “You can do anything you want to me.”

 

Oswald runs the tip of his tongue over his upper teeth. Their rhythm fades and wavers.

 

“Beg for it.”

 

Ed is panting; his yearning pupils are glowing. He caresses Oswald’s back now, gently tilting his whole torso closer. Oswald lays down on him, careful enough to not slip out of him. Ed cranes his neck to kiss him, mumbling between dry kisses:

 

“Please cut me. I pray you. Please cut me.”

 

Oswald’s crooked grin smears their lips. He grabs Ed’s shoulder for balance, pushing himself up. He pouts as he joins the tip of the blade to Ed’s skin, between his collarbones. Ed is nibbling on his lip, biting it white, grunting.

 

The blade flashes.

 

Oswald presses it to Ed’s wrist, nearly touching his cock. Ed gasps, thrilled and surprised, and Oswald tsks.

 

“Let it go. I won’t let you feel pleasure so easily.”

 

Ed’s eyes darken; still, he does as he’s told.

 

Oswald purrs:

 

“Very good. You can be so easily tamed.” He peeks at the knife, puckering his lips. “Freshen my memory, my dear. What did you do to me not so long ago? You refused to let me come. You shoved me to the wall. Am I right?”

 

Ed’s throaty laugh vibrates through Oswald’s skull.

 

“You love it when I tease you.”

 

“Maybe.” Oswald’s grin is fierce and flaming. His thrusts start to become more predictable; he pulls his cock back, slowly, just to the tip. Then, he slices him up with violent pushes, making Ed hiss and moan and tense. “What about you?” he goes on, voice lowering. “If you wish to be cut open, I should refuse to act upon your desires. You don’t deserve it, after all. You’re obedient, I admit - but can you satisfy me? Are you behaving how I expect you to? I believe not.”

 

Ed slaps the knife out of Oswald’s hand, snatching the grip mid-air as it falls. He stretches his arm out, pointing the tip of the blade to Oswald’s throat.

 

He disarmed him.

 

Oswald freezes in the middle of a thrust, the tip of his cock still dipped into Ed’s satisfying warmth.

 

He can’t wipe away his grin. He arches his brows.

 

“Now what?”

 

The blade glides lower. Ed sinks the edge into his skin, marking him with a capillary crimson line.

 

He croaks:

 

“Do you still have any doubts?”

 

“Hm.” Oswald thrusts into him again, and Ed surrenders with a weak whimper. “I believe I don’t. Give the knife back. I’ll torture you until you’re nothing but the pathetic mess you are.”

 

Ed hands Oswald the knife, and Oswald keeps his promise. He quickens the pace and leans on Ed’s shoulder, scraping scars into his skin. At first, he doesn’t cut too deep so Ed can get used to being injured. Then, he slices into him fiercely, touching the muscle too. Oswald marks him his: on the heaving chest, the round shoulders, on the cheeks, reaching the corner of his mouth to press the blade to his tongue. Ed takes the blade’s every kiss with parted lips and pleased moans. His nostrils are white as bone, trembling and widening.

 

Oswald is glaring at him. His voice quivers as he whispers:

 

“You wretched, gorgeous beast.”

 

Ed giggles, throwing his head back. The knife doesn’t slip out of his mouth. He seems close after Oswald’s sweet cuts and pulsing rhythm. He quickly mumbles, lisping:

 

“Hold the knife to my throat. Please.”

 

The blade scrapes the skin over the artery. Oswald bites into his lip as he’s thrusting into him, and Ed suddenly tenses under him, shivering all over. He rips the duvet with his nails, coming with a hoarse scream.

 

Then, he relaxes and swallows. The sight burns Oswald’s cheeks: Ed’s skin is glowing with fever and sweat and semen and blood, the drops are melting into each other, staining him. His slender neck curves back, the sharp line of his bloody jaw and pretty nose gleams from the shadows.

 

Oswald clenches his teeth, slamming into him even harder. Ed’s whole body is heaving under him, slow and numb, and it’s not enough-

 

Oswald slips out, grabbing his cock.

 

“I want to come into your pretty mouth,” he breathes, trying to keep up with his rhythm. “Will you allow me?”

 

Ed doesn’t say anything. He slides lower on the bed and grabs Oswald’s ass, roughly pulling him close. He kisses his cock before he clasps his lips around it. He stares into Oswald’s eyes, letting him having his way with him. Ed curls his tongue to lick over him with every thrust. Oswald grabs the bed frame for balance, fucking Ed’s mouth, shoving his cock deep to make Ed gag and choke on him.

 

Oswald comes with a quivering cry. His semen splatters down Ed’s throat as he slips his cock out of his mouth. Ed licks him clean, lewdly, keeping him close with nails deepening into Oswald’s ass.

 

Oswald leans down, panting, breathing a kiss onto Ed’s forehead. His lips stay on Ed’s skin, breath hot and trembling.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald crawls on the edge of the bed, peeking back at Ed.

 

Ed’s glance is still foggy and unfocused. He parts his lips, sighing with satisfaction.

 

“I have to bathe you again, it seems,” Oswald breathes, and Ed closes his eyes, grinning widely.

 

“Don’t pretend you mind it.”

 

“How are you feeling?”

 

Ed finally looks at him; his smile is permanent and soft.

 

“I’ve never been better.”

 

“Are you planning to tell me that after every night we spend together?”

 

“You can take my word for it.”

 

Oswald sniffs and smiles, bending over to grab the towel.

 

“Your honesty is far too fragile, my dear,” he rumbles, smacking the towel into Ed’s blood-smudged face. Ed’s giggle sounds muffled under it. Oswald grabs the corners, stretching and forcing it down. “You fucking bastard,” he whispers gently. “It would be so much easier if you didn’t say a word.”

 

He draws the towel back. Ed’s still smiling. He arches his eyebrows, questioning, but he keeps quiet.

 

Oswald lets him grab him by the hair, pulling closer. Oswald shuts his eyes as Ed sinks his sharp, pearly teeth into his skin.

 

It feels bittersweet and cold as a tingling sensation ripples through the cays of his veins, numbing him.

 

Oswald clings to Ed, deepening his nails into his waist, because it feels like he’s dreaming again.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The _Iceberg_ is slowly floating towards the steel harbor of Gotham. The softly rippling waves of dawn are guiding them.

 

Oswald is standing on the forecastle deck, his trembling hands are gripping the rail. He’s wearing a coat coached with gold, and a tender smile. The white beams of sunlight highlight his freckles.

 

Gotham’s sight, wrapped up in thick mist, charms him and he falls in love with it again and again. This might be the thousandth time, but still Oswald is yearning for it like a lover he left behind for the sea.

 

The ghost city of Gotham is constantly closed ‘round with a ring of milky fog. Scalloped towers rise from the haze, black as coal, glowing metallic. Their bodies wreath like smoke, their tips dip into the grey clouds. The sharp, shrubby salients are shadows of statues: beasts with bony wings, screaming sirens, gargoyles watch over the city with corpse-like, empty eyes.

 

Gotham is a steel beast, belching coal and smoke. It’s known for being a pirate nest that cannot be purified; an American property, an authority of the Wayne family. Thomas Wayne, the current head of the family turns his eye from the black trades, as long as the sales are current and quiet, making Gotham the perfect place in the North for pirates and criminals.

 

The sky is burning with carmine flames. Heavy rainclouds crawl above the _Iceberg_ , and Oswald can feel the cold drops on his nose and lips. He opens his mouth, sighing deep, breathing in the city’s fusty smell, the bittersweet taste of chemicals.

 

The slender bowsprit scrapes the fog. Oswald closes his eyes and focuses on the creaking ship, the tender waves.

 

Selina’s scream slices through the serenity.

 

Oswald looks up. They’re still in the middle of the ring, Selina still can see the other side. She slides down on the mast, her bare soles smack on the floor. She hurries to Oswald, grabbing the rail out of breath.

 

“She’s here. The _Saint Dumas_ is here.”

 

“What?!”

 

“I saw her. They’re waiting for us.”

 

Oswald turns his head towards Gotham; he sees nothing but milky vastidity.

 

“Are you sure about it?” Oswald asks, voice husky.

 

“I am,” Selina cries, smacking on the rail. “The guns are ready to fire. She’s anchoring crossways. The harbor is completely empty.”

 

Oswald nods, and turns away from the rail. His shouted orders are clear: they will fight, and even if they need to sacrifice the _Iceberg_ to set the _Saint Dumas_ ablaze, they _will_ destroy her.

 

Selina is following him. As soon as Oswald gives his crew orders and closes his mouth, Selina grips his shoulder.

 

“What?”

 

“I saw something else,” she confesses, taking a deep breath. “Someone’s pinioned to the bowsprit. A woman.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald is sniffing into the wet air with widening nostrils, like he could smell Galavan’s plan. His knuckles are whitening, almost melting into the fog as he tightens his grip on the rail. The brigantine slowly turns to orient herself into the ring - like this, they can show the guns towards the _Saint Dumas_ as long as they reach the other side.

 

With a handful of pirates, Oswald has no chance to see the _Dumas_ splintered. If Galavan wants them, he’ll get them - the wreck of the _Iceberg_ , at least, and a whole dead crew. Oswald is willing to offer a deal to steal a march on him.

 

Unfortunately, Theo Galavan is not stupid enough.

 

Obstructing their path in the narrow steel harbor lowers all of their vantages that comes with the brigantine. They can’t bypass her, they can’t counterplot her using the _Iceberg_ ’s draught: the _Dumas_ can follow them anywhere in the deep waters of the harbor. Every gunshot the _Dumas_ makes inflicts a deadly wound upon the brigantine. Their only chance is to shoot through the galleon’s powder room.

 

And they need to leave the wreck of the brigantine as soon as possible.

 

Oswald gently runs his fingertips over the rail. He got to like this ship, even though he used to dream about burning her himself. He hated every shred of Fish’s legacy, until he realized how it feels to rule her and control her. The brigantine is perfect for him in many ways, and now it becomes crystal clear that he will lose her.

 

The bowsprit breaks through the ring, weltering. Oswald squints at the galleon: she is waiting for them between the city and the ring, cutting the path of all other ships. Just like Selina said.

 

He’s hunting for the bowsprit, but he can’t see it yet: the figurehead is covered with a heavy, black cloth, flickering in the wind. Oswald crinkles his nose. Maybe Selina wasn’t completely right. Maybe her sight is not infallible.

 

Galavan is looking down at him with crossed arms and a delightful smile. He’s surrounded by his first mates: it takes Oswald some time before he recognizes the blonde woman, breasts exposed. The other is Galavan’s sister - from her mere memory, the skin around Oswald’s wrist starts tingling.

 

Oswald slides his glance across the galleon. He doesn’t know for sure how many men Galavan lost in their earlier fight, but there still seems to be too many of them. Their superiority is bridgeless.

 

Galavan is moving down the stairs with airy steps. As the _Iceberg_ slides closer, he waves to his crew to gaff them once again.

 

Oswald lets them. They’re being pulled closer, humiliated and helpless.

 

Galavan steps right before Oswald. He’s above him, and Oswald feels like a fucking peasant in front of a tyrannical king.

 

Galavan grins. His golden teeth are glowing between his dark lips.

 

“Captain Cobblepot,” he shouts down cheerfully, spreading his arms. “It’s so great to see you again. You took such a French leave the other day.”

 

“It’s my pleasure,” Oswald grunts, peeking behind.

 

His crew is ready: pistols and hatchets and swords in hand, sharp tips pointing ahead, aimed at Galavan’s pirates.

 

“I took notice of your resistance with an aching heart.”

 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Oswald spits, glaring up at him. He returns Galavan dark smile. “One of us has to surrender. I decided it’s going to be you.”

 

“You’re bold. I have to admit, you’re bold.” Galavan leans on the rail, lewdly. He entwines his fingers above the rippling waves. “As a matter of fact, I made the same decision: the good Captain Cobblepot must know what he’s doing. We’ve all heard about the slaughter you consummated on the night of the rebellion. Who am I, the humble new captain? A yardbird, a man of no credentials. My name has never been heard or sweeped over the harbors, not even in Tortuga.”

 

Oswald’s neck tightens as he listens to Galavan. It’s such a hateful sensation, letting him have his way with him, mocking him. Galavan is playing with him like a cub, wounding him, releasing him over and over again to let him run away before he hurls himself at him and bites through his neck.

 

“Then,” Galavan goes on, voice ceremonial and low, “then, a new thought split into me. It cannot leave me. According to that certain thought, I believed that Captain Cobblepot, as a man of feeling with a beating heart, must have someone whom he deeply cares about.”

 

Oswald’s blood freezes in his veins. He is staring into Galavan’s lightless eyes with a giddy head and pale face.

 

“You’re wrong,” he replies, as airly as he can. His knees start to tremble.

 

Galavan pouts.

 

“Am I? This is highly unfortunate. I was so sure about myself, hoping I could finally defeat you.” Galavan sharply sighs, gesturing towards his sister. “Tabitha, would you get rid of our,” he looks at Oswald, “dead weight?”

 

Tabitha grins. She runs across the main deck, spinning over the rail and grabbing a rope. Her heels knock on the hull. She whips off the cloth with one sweep.

 

Oswald howls.

 

 

⚓

 

 

She is pinioned to the figurehead, just like Selina said. She’s unconscious; her dirty blonde curls cover her face, and she’s wearing that dress she always wears when she expects Oswald to come home - a worn out, pale pink dress, decorated with lace and ruffles. The pearl necklace was a gift from Oswald. He’s been gleaning the pearls for years now, lengthening the necklace pearl by pearl. It’s long enough to reach her bosom.

 

Oswald howls and Tabitha looks up at Galvan with a pouting mouth.

 

“She’s broken.”

 

Galavan is staring at Oswald.

 

“Forgive us, Captain - my sister has a deep fondness for her favorite toys.”

 

“Let her go,” Oswald screams, avoiding Galavan’s glance. Gertrud is drawing his gaze towards her: he almost falls over the rail, trying to get as closer to her as possible. “Mother! Mother, it’s me! Let her go, _now_ , or I swear-”

 

“Please, please.” Galavan holds his hands up. “Your tone is unnecessary. Tabby, try winding her up again. I’m sure she’s still working.”

 

“ _You-_ ”

 

Tabitha shrugs, pulling a small bottle out of her pocket. She bites the dowel out, spitting it into the sea. She spatters the water into Gertrud’s face.

 

Gertrud becomes conscious with a wet gasp. She’s looking around, frightened and lost, the panic shivers through her. She softly whimpers.

 

Oswald shouts again:

 

“Mother, I’m here! Everything’s alright! I’m here!” He turns to Galavan. His rapid heartbeat races over his ribs, throbbing in his ears. “Let her go. I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything if you release her. I give you everything; my ship, my crew, every piece of gold and rubin you find in the hold. I’ll give you all I have.”

 

Gertrud’s veiled eyes find Oswald. Her shattered words sound hollow and weak.

 

“Oswald? Is that you? Dearie, is that you?”

 

“It’s me, mother. Everything’s all right, trust me, I’ll make everything alright.” He screams behind himself with sputtering rage: “Bring me the plank you fucking sons of bitches!”

 

“Oswald? What’s-what’s wrong?” Gertrud’s voice fades.

 

Mightless tears come to Oswald’s eyes. He tries to blink them back.

 

“Everything’s alright. Everything, you hear me?” He repeats like a sweet lullaby, like spell words. “Everything’s alright.”

 

The one-eyed guardsman balances a plank next to him. He taps it on the rail, the other side leads up to the galleon.

 

A pistol volleys and Gertrud screams.

 

The guardsman drops dead.

 

The pistol is smoking in Galavan’s hand. Oswald stares at the guardsman’s chest: his black shirt is soaking with blood, the dark smudge swelling rapidly.

 

Galavan wags his finger at Oswald, purring:

 

“Where are your manners, Captain?”

 

Oswald is shivering behind the rail, mutely, half-deaf from the shot. His features harden and strain. Gertrud’s quiet whimpering slices into his heart like daggers.

 

“If I understand correctly, you surrender to me.”

 

“Yes,” Oswald rigidly barks.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“Oswald?”

 

“ _Yes_. I surrender.”

 

“That’s wonderful!,” Galavan laughs cheerfully, sliding his palm above his heart. “You can’t even imagine how relieved I am. Today is such a blessed day.” He stoops over the rail, his glance entwines with her sister’s. “Tabitha” he softly hums, “now.”

 

A flash of a sword.

 

A blink of an eye.

 

A scarlet cleave opens on Gertrud’s porcelain neck, wide and deep like a ruby necklace. Her blood falls with sparkling drops. As Tabitha cuts the ropes, Gertrud’s body hurtles into the icy, twirling water, her dress fluttering.

 

There’s a hollow splash.

 

Oswald screams like the blade had sliced through his heart.

 

“NO!” he shrieks, his knees collapsing under him. “No, no, no, no, no, no-”

 

“I’m terribly sorry.” Galavan moves back with slow steps; his rich voice vibrates on the waves, reaching Oswald. “You’re too late. _Fire_.”

 

It feels like the raging sky breaks away, falling down on them. The rain starts showering, mingling its tears with Oswald’s. The _Saint Dumas_ ’ twenty guns fire all at once, the cannon balls shoot trough the _Iceberg_ , rasping and creaking. Chips of wood disperse in the air.

 

Cries clang. Oswald barely understands the words: they’ve lost the foresail, the force topsail. One cannon ball crushed the store room, the other lodged into the stern, knocking the captain’s cabin to pieces.

 

The captain’s cabin.

 

Zsasz opens fire without his order. The _Iceberg_ trembles under his heels, creakingly, the guns volley like thousand storms.

 

Oswald scrambles to his feet. His face is smeary from tears, his skin is burning. The whole deck is covered in tufty smoke and stingy smell of gunpowder. It settles down as a poisonous cloud. The silhouettes that rush past him disappear again in a wink, melting into the twirling smoke.

 

He can’t see anything. The powder burns his eyes, his tears flow even harder down on his filthy cheeks. As he takes a weak and trembling step, he slips and trips over something.

 

He stares below his foot. The guardsman's blood is dripping from his boots, the lifeless, grey face is covered in dust.

 

Oswald’s stomach is stirred up. Too much is seething inside of him, from agony to grief, from fear to apathy, and the burning, restless vengefulness. He wishes for Galavan’s endless suffering and tantalizing death as much as his own passing.

 

Something ends now. Whatever he does, the wreck of the _Iceberg_ will rest on the bottom of the sea, crushed into little pieces, tainted with his crew’s blood.

 

He doesn’t stand a chance to make a dash at the _Saint Dumas_. He doesn’t stand a chance to save his own ship. He doesn’t stand a chance to respectfully bury his mother. And he doesn’t stand a chance to help Ed. Not anymore.

 

The cabin is one of the weakest spot of the _Iceberg_. If Galavan hit the narrow stern anywhere near it, the cannon ball must’ve cut up everything - furniture and body alike.

 

There’s another volley-firing.

 

Oswald blindly fumbles when the sound slices through him. His heartbeat stops for a minute. He recognizes the sound: the _Dumas_ hit the main mast.

 

Fearsome screams shoot up, the crunching wood howls. The whirring mast cleaves the smoke in two.

 

The ropes are snapping and splitting, the heavy sails are wailing toward the deck. The wood is crackling. The whole ruckus is ear-splitting.

 

The mast falls straight towards Oswald.

 

 _‘This is it”_ is all he can think.

 

He shuts his eyes and waits for the fated end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you very much for reading! ♥  
> We're almost there, mateys. Stay tuned for the last chapter.


	7. Monsters Are Coming

There’s another volley-firing.

 

Oswald blindly fumbles when the sound slices through him. His heartbeat stops for a minute. He recognizes the sound: the _Dumas_ hit the main mast.

 

Fearsome screams shoot up, the crunching wood howls. The whirring mast cleaves the smoke in two.

 

The ropes are snapping and splitting, the heavy sails are plopping. The wood is crackling. The whole ruckus is ear-splitting.

 

The mast falls straight towards Oswald.

 

 _‘This is it’_ is all he can think.

 

He shuts his eyes and waits for the fated end.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The mast blindly creaks.

 

The floor disappears below his soles.

 

The survivors scream as one man.

 

Oswald opens his eyes, chest heaving. Something feels rough, slippery on his skin; it’s the opaque scales.

 

His heart stops for a moment.

 

The Leviathan is stooping above him: his length is an armada’s, his rugged, filmy dorsal fin is flopping in the wind like sails. He’s holding the broken mast with his slender back, his tail lops over the rail on the other side of the brigantine. He pushed Oswald back with his peaked head, and now Oswald’s standing by the unscathed bowsprit. His palms stick to the Leviathan’s wet skin.

 

The beast draws back a bit, blinking down at him with milky eyelids and his moon-like lobes of irises.

 

The smoke rises.

 

Oswald is shaking all over. He is staring at the Leviathan; his mighty spikes and filmy, parchment-like skin glowing in the cloudy light, organs clearly visible under it. His breath is cold and ragged, blown from slender nostrils like gusts of wind. He opens his slit mouth, gently hissing at him.

 

“ _Heavens_ ,” Oswald breathes. He’s never seen the beast at such close range; now, he’s mesmerized and terrified, standing there paralyzed.

 

He reaches out to touch the giant cheek. The Leviathan melts into his touch, tilting his head: he makes him remember Ed, sees him under the illusion of a serpent and it gives him strength to speak.

 

“Get out of here,” he finally shouts, hoping the sound of the battle won’t devour his words. The amber eyes darken. “Get out of here. I command you. Take your human shape, find a longboat, and reach the shore.”

 

The Leviathan hisses with rage, snatching his head away. He slips under him, lifting him up. He slithers over the cannon-mangled rail, splashing into the freezing waves.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald spits out sparkling, grey seawater and rain. A thin coat of salt crackles on his cheeks. He’s hugging the Leviathan’s spiky scales with both arms, spearing up towards the stormy sky. Oswald’s coat is fluttering behind him as the winds tear into the cloth.

 

The Leviathan’s head lifts up, then dives into the freezing water without any warning. Oswald inhales in the last minute, his eyes are burning.

 

It lasts for a mere moment. As they resurface, Oswald is shivering all over, damp clothes sticking to his skin. The Leviathan moves his jagged tail, pushing a body in front of Oswald.

 

He gasps.

 

Oswald reaches out, subconsciously, entwining his cramped fingers around Gertrud’s wrist. He pulls her close, hugging her with one arm.

 

Gertrud’s head tilts to Oswald’s shoulder. The blood is coagulated and dark red around her neck. Oswald shuts his eyes, sticking his forehead to Gertrud’s cold temple, nestling to her. He’s sobbing without tears.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The unworldly screech bursts like thunder. The sound is the scream of thousands damned, coming straight from Hell below. It’s pulsing in Oswald’s bones, under his flesh, prising his mind open. He embraces Gertrud tighter, peeking back: before he sees anything, he already knows.

 

Galavan called his creature.

 

The Leviathan writhes under him.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald has never seen a monster so enormous. Black tentacles splash out of the stormy waves, raging. Even their tips are as wide as a main mast. The creature screeches; its voice is hoarse, painfully high-pitched. Its opened mouth - the length of two galleons - is filled with sharp, deck-sized teeth. Several rows of teeth, Oswald notices, reaching the creature’s throat.

 

The Kraken dives.

 

It’s closing in in a pulsing rhythm. The harbor’s water splits in two. V-shaped, frothy waves are pouring from the creature’s back.

 

The Leviathan turns his head back, roaring at the Kraken. Oswald’s ears are ringing.

 

The tentacles entwine around the serpent’s tail, pulling him back with incredible strength. Oswald hugs Gertrud close as they spin around, falling into the waves.

 

They are sinking. Under the surface, the two monster’s interweaving shadow is just a giant blur. Their fight’s writhing backwash pushes Oswald and Gertrud towards the shore. They’re twirling in the icy water, helplessly, and suffocating. Oswald’s clenched fingers never leave Gertrud’s lifeless body.

 

He’s drowning. He opens his mouth, impulsively breathing for air. Salty water rushes into his lungs, burning him from the inside. Panic strikes him as he kicks madly with his feet, trying to reach the air, pulling Gertrud’s body behind him.

 

He breaks out of the water, coughing and snorting. His wet bangs stick to his face, darkening the world before his eyes. He combs them back with his nails. For a moment, he doesn’t see anything but the raging sea, boiling and seething, bubbles bursting, as huge as Oswald’s fist. Deep below, the two monsters are battling their fated war.

 

Further away, the _Iceberg_ is sinking, broken in two. The main deck is already below the waves: the wrecked stern is ravished by the stormy waves. The bowsprit spears up toward the weeping clouds. The creaking of wood groans like an agonizing scream.

 

Seawater and tears pours from Oswald’s face in fat drops. It veils his eyes; he doesn’t even notice the survivors, cradled in a longboat. They’re closing in.

 

“Captain!” Gabe holds out his huge hand.

 

Oswald floats Gertrud’s body first so Gabe can carefully heave her into the boat. Another hand reaches out, wrist slender and wrapped in black leather. Zsasz draws Oswald in.

 

Oswald spits. Gabe slowly lifts Gertrud’s body from between Oswald’s spread arms. He hugs her again, demanding, only caring about the others when her head is finally resting on his lap.

 

He peeks around. Beside the two men, only Selina is huddled up in the back of the longboat, covered in someone else’s blood. Oswald stares at Gabe.

 

“Any other survivors?” he croaks, throat sore and dry.

 

“We don’t know. I’ve seen the dead, the unconscious. Some betrayed you. We fled as soon as we could.”

 

“If they’re still alive, they’ll follow us,” Selina rumbles, drawing her knees up. She hugs them, chin pointing behind the longboat. “Who’s your friend?”

 

Oswald can’t force himself to look at the rumbling waves.

 

“Nygma.”

 

Victor chimes in:

 

“The surgeon?”

 

“He used to be that.” Oswald strokes Gertrud’s hair, combing it with trembling fingertips. “If he survives, he might be a surgeon again.”

 

He sucks his lips. The longboat is covered in breathless silence. Everyone stares behind except for Oswald: their glance is lured by the grim, vertiginous vortex, by the battle of monsters.

 

Oswald keeps caressing Gertrud’s hair, senseless and numb. In his mind, the pulsing void is deeper and darker than the desert of the seafloor.

 

So much darker.

 

 

⚓

 

 

There’s a heartbreaking screech, rippling through the waves and lodging into Oswald’s chest like a bullet.

 

Oswald jerks up, glaring towards the rumbling sea. The sight is magnificent and terrifying; the Leviathan rises up, his head casting a shadow on the morning clouds, his spikes scratching them. The Kraken sticks to him with its tentacles, sinking its thousand teeth into the slender throat. The blood gushes down, and Oswald can hear Ed’s painful scream in the otherworldly screech.

 

The longboat reaches the shore. Oswald bends his spine to breathe a kiss on Gertrud’s cold cheek. He tries to hide his face and petrified expression as he straightens. Zsasz and Selina have already hopped out of the boat, it’s only him and Gabe now; the boatswain looks at him with woeful eyes.

 

Oswald enfolds Gertrud in his arms, and holds her out.

 

“Take care of her,” he says. “Find a safe tavern close to the harbor and wait for me there. Protect her like your own life.” His voice hardens. “Understood?”

 

Gabe nods without hesitation, swallowing back his words. He takes Gertrud’s body from Oswald, crawling to the shore.

 

Oswald grabs the heavy paddles and takes a deep breath.

 

He starts rowing.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The heaving billows are getting ruthless and vagarious as he floats towards the battle. The giant monsters splash into the water, stirring spring tides; the waves wash over the storm-tossed longboat, slapping Oswald in the face.

 

Oswald keeps fighting with clenched teeth. He knows that even if he can reach the beasts, he’ll stay powerless and defenseless. A wet tentacle or a rugged fin might hit him, unaware of him, crushing his skull like an egg shell.

 

At this point it would come as a welcome relief.

 

 

Lightning slices through the furious sky, and a clap of thunder follows: white light sparkles up, blinding and sudden, and there’s an ear piercing rumble.

 

Then, the world quiets.

 

 

Thick, flowing blood melts into the harbor’s foamy waves. Oswald stares into the raw, boiling water. The swollen drops of the storm are dripping onto the blood.

 

He’s in Hell.

 

Hell is quiet, tuneless even; Hell is burning blood and bubbling water, Hell is grief and heartache and paralysis. Hell is here for him.

 

He slowly turns back, facing towards the open sea. He reefs the paddles. He’s still far away; still, he should see something by now, he should see at least one of them-

 

Something moves. Something that seems tiny from here, tiny and dark, floating on the surface.

 

A body.

 

Oswald scrambles to his feet in the wobbling long boat, and awkwardly dives into the bleeding water.

 

 

⚓

 

 

He’s swallowing metallic and salty sips as he’s struggling towards the body. It feels like he’s been swimming for only a moment; he can reach out now, grip the arm, draw the head closer.

 

The swollen face is covered in a black beard, hidden pearls shine under the thick hair.

 

Oswald shoves Galavan away with a disgusted grimace.

 

Then, the recognition- like the coldness of the waters- crawls under his skin.

 

Galavan hasn’t summoned any beast.

 

It’s him. He’s the Kraken, hiding in a human shape just like Ed did.

 

Oswald looks around, arms flinging under the surface. Ed shouldn’t be far away from here. He stares back to Galavan: the bastard’s still alive, chest slowly heaving. That bastard stayed alive, even though he took everything from Oswald, everything he lived for; and now, he’s surrounded by death and devastation and he. Is. Still. Breathing.

 

Oswald snatches to his belt underwater. His pistol is useless, but he still has his cutlass. He unbuckles it from the belt. As he lifts it out of the splashing water, Galavan’s eyelids twitch.

 

Oswald sinks his nails into Galavan’s jaw, forcing him to open his mouth. Galavan’s glance flashes at him.

 

“This is for my mother,” Oswald hisses, and shoves the cutlass deep down to  Galavan’s throat.

 

Galavan’s scream slices through Oswald’s flesh. It’s releasing and sweet.

 

His throat cracks and bursts. Oswald spits on his face and keeps swimming to find Ed; to find him alive and breathing.

 

 

⚓

 

 

He’s sleeking between shattered planks, lifeless bodies and floating sails. This is the wreckage of the _Iceberg_ : the leftovers of another dream. He floats the bodies away with his arm, whether they’re familiar or not.

 

He can’t find the _Saint Dumas_ anywhere. The galleon disappeared without leaving any trace, like a cursed ghost ship.

 

It feels like years have passed by the time Oswald finds him. When he notices him, he’s shivering all over, crushed by the waves. His teeth click together, the desperate fear knots his inside.

 

Ed is floating on the surface: the pouring rain is dripping on his legs, back and nape. He’s bleeding from his shoulder, from where the Kraken sank its thousand teeth into his flesh, tearing his skin and pulverizing his bones.

 

Oswald swims closer, turning Ed on his back, holding his nape with his palm to keep him over the surface.

 

He shouts in a toneless, quavering voice.

 

“Ed! Ed, can you hear me? Ed!”

 

Ed is motionless, mouth opened, eyes half-shut. Oswald slaps him hard; his palm snaps on Ed’s cheek, wet and loud. Ed finally gasps and starts coughing right away. From his throat, inhaled seawater is pouring, soaking his lips and chin.

 

Oswald is suddenly well aware of all his senses: the flowing blood in his veins, his beating heart, his cramped muscles.

 

“Ed,” he whispers, embracing him underwater. “Thank God. Thank God. Can you hear me?”

 

Ed can only croak; his lungs tighten, his breath is ragged and weak.

 

“Don’t speak. Don’t speak. Hold on. I told you to get out of here. Don’t you fucking die on me, or I’ll choke you with my own hands. Hold on.”

 

Oswald reaches out for the closest plank. He gains all his leftover strength to push Ed upon it. Ed claws into the wood, clenching his teeth. Oswald grabs the plank, pistoning with his feet to drift them back to the longboat.

 

In his crooked leg, the pulsing pain is unbearable. By the time they reach the boat, the exhaustion almost takes control over Oswald’s body as millions of tiny stars sparkle in front of him.

 

 

⚓

 

 

On the whist waves he can row with ease.

 

From Ed’s glassy eyes, the mist finally and slowly dissolves. He’s laying on his back, breath heaving. Oswald had wrapped him up with his soaking coat; Ed is twitching and trembling under it. Every breath he takes makes his features strain into a painful grimace.

 

“Hold on,” Oswald tells Ed- and himself- once again.

 

Ed’s lips writhe as he speaks cabalistic words in an inhuman language.

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“R-river…”

 

Oswald knots his eyebrows. He stares ahead where the harbor’s grey water joins to a narrow sea path, ripping into the smoky city. Ed breathes, grappling with his words:

 

“Pull the boat… river…”

 

“Pull the boat up to the river? Is that what you’re asking?”

 

“Yes…”

 

Oswald pulls the left paddle harder to turn the longboat towards the silver river.

 

 

⚓

 

 

All of his cramped muscles are rustling and buzzing with pain. His mind is foggy, focusing on his last task that’s worth fighting for. If he’s able to save Ed, if there’s actually a chance, a chance so small like a grain of sand - then, he’ll keep rowing.

 

The silver river slithers between coaly towers that sweat iron haze. The water is covered in a thick layer of chemical mist.

 

In the city, nothing has changed. Everything is familiar; the narrow streets, the dark alleys, the humming chaos of unconcerned citizens. Oswald has already been around here, long before he put out to sea.

 

In Gotham, everything’s eternal and falling out of time.

 

Oswald is flirting with the thought of giving up. He doesn’t feel any of his string of nerves in his arm, his muscles stick to his bones like dry knots.

 

Then, Ed hisses, raising his arm.

 

“Here.”

 

Oswald looks up, following the path of the pointing fingers. Black stone stairs lead up to the cobbled streets. There’s a corner, caged between two colossal building’s steel webs, covered in a cloud of fog thicker than the ring. It’s lewdly twirling and moving: something is rustling and whispering inside of it. Oswald can’t recognize the language.

 

Oswald turns to bow towards the stairs. His heels splash into the water as he limps on the first step that’s still underwater. He bends his knees to hold his hand out to Ed.

 

Ed is glaring up at him, eyes dull.

 

“Help me,” Oswald barks. “I can’t get you out of the boat myself. We need all your strength. Come on.”

 

Ed nods, or maybe simply shivers. He clenches his teeth, trying to scramble to his feet in the wobbling longboat. He succeeds with trembling knees and heaving breath. Oswald grabs his hand, grip tight and encouraging around his  wrist.

 

Ed steps ahead and stumbles. Oswald drops on his knees with him, landing under him. His coat falls off Ed’s shoulders, his skin is sweaty and glowing. The Kraken’s bite is still slightly bleeding. Oswald is sharing his own warmth with him, pulling him into a tender embrace. Ed is fumbling with his hands, trying to lean on his own palms. He keeps falling back on Oswald, unable to support himself.

 

“Now what?” Oswald mumbles, gripping Ed’s shoulders to stop him from moving too much.

 

Ed raises his jaw, pointing at the whispering fog with his chin. His forehead bumps to Oswald’s.

 

“Alright.” Oswald swallows. Ed’s breath is cold on his lips. “Come on. Slowly. Carefully. _Slower_ , damnit.”

 

Oswald snatches his fallen coat, wrapping it around Ed again. He fists it in front of Ed’s chest with one hand; with the other, he hugs his waist.

 

He’s leading him. Protecting him.

 

 

⚓

 

 

The fog seems deeper and more impassable with every trembling step they take. The whispering gets louder, the words hiss and melt into each other. It seems threatening, twirling even quicker, like it feels their presence and it’s riled up.

 

Oswald recoils, wobbling on his feet. He peeks up at Ed.

 

“Are you sure about this?”

 

Ed returns his glance with a tender and quickly fading smile.

 

“You don’t need to worry,” he whispers, dropping his head to kiss Oswald on the lips. “You won’t get hurt. I won’t let it happen.”

 

“You seem to be capable of that,” Oswald mutters bitterly.

 

He takes a step.

 

 

⚓

 

 

As his body sinks into the fog, he can’t breathe. The fog clogs his lungs, sticking in them like tar, dripping down his throat. Ed tightens around his arm and Oswald can’t turn to him. He’s too numb.

 

He feels a lightning flash through his bones. He stares down at himself: under his skin, like scarlet veins, there’s a glowing cay of blood. The whispering slides into his skull, throbbing on his eardrums. He gasps. He’s finally able to turn to Ed, and Oswald can see the veil of reality split into rags.

 

Ed is covered in fog, he can still see him: one minute, it’s the beast glinting next to him, then it’s his human form, changing again and forever. It’s like watching a disturbing Laterna Magica, a broken, criss-cross illusion.

 

Ed is staring at him, just as surprised as Oswald is - and then, he grins with the teeth of the Leviathan. Oswald sees himself in the amber eyes, his shadow is somehow _malformed_.

 

Oswald opens his mouth to say something, anything, but the fog crawls into his mouth.

 

It crawls down his throat and up his skull. The world fades.

 

 

⚓

 

 

He’s waking from this nightmare, skin clammy with sweat and seawater. He can’t feel his own arm, but he can feel Ed’s: he’s hugging his neck. The weight of his arm is calming and sweet.

 

“Are you alright?” Ed asks, his voice buzzing from a distance. Oswald tries to nod and becomes dizzy. He snatches to his head. “Oswald. Are you alright?”

 

He blinks up at Ed. His nails scratch through his temple, sinking into his skin. The pain is refreshing, pulling him back to reality.

 

“Wh-what the hell was that?”

 

“Not just a common fog.”

 

“Shocking,” Oswald barks.

 

His eyes widen as he draws away, glaring at Ed. He’s still wearing his coat, his skin under it seems healthy and unscratched.

 

“Are _you_ alright?”

 

A woman’s voice intones. It sounds ancient and melodic.

 

“Not yet.”

 

A small figure steps out of the fog, into the filthy-dull lights. Her grey hair is gleaming as she steps closer, slowly, imperially. Her glance is glass.

 

“The fog touches the spirit,” she goes on quietly. “It unveils the hidden, the long forgotten. It’s an absolution and a curse. It rips your soul out and sticks it on your skin.” She looks at Ed, lowering her jaw to look at him above her glasses. “Leviathan. Welcome.”

 

“Edwige. I need your help.”

 

The woman softly raises her eyebrows. Her smileless face is tender and dour at the same time, hiding her warm heart with a steel mask. Oswald sees through her.

 

“Does the human skin prove to be unfit?”

 

“No.” Ed licks his lips. “In fact, that’s why I’m here. Exile me into it. Lock me up inside of it, tear the beast out of me and help me live.”

 

Edwige hums.

 

“You can lose everything.”

 

“I wish for that. My time is over, witch. If you don’t do it, I’m going to die. The wind of passing is howling around me. It’s been following me for months now, chewing on my mind. I need to get free.”

 

Edwige sighs.

 

“You’re wasting your breath, son.”

 

Oswald shouts at her:

 

“Are you refusing to help him?”

 

Edwige’s glance flashes at him, seeking him. Oswald stares back, his skin starts tingling as the grey eyes slide over him head to toe. Edwige squints, her question is for Ed:

 

“Is he your-?”

 

Ed cuts in:

 

“My lover.”

 

“Hm.”

 

The wrinkles deepen around the witch’s eyes; it’s the only sign of her smiling.

 

“I was telling the truth. I can’t help you, Leviathan. I can shape new skin and flesh and bones, but I can’t lock you inside of your body. Not forever.”

 

“You’re lying,” Oswald barks. Ed reaches out to take his hand, but Oswald wobbles ahead, stepping right in front of the woman. She stands against his gaze. Oswald chuckles; his hummed words are sweet. “I can see that you know something. You’re lying, Edwige.”

 

Edwige’s eyes darken behind her glasses. She peevishly waves her hand, her voice is still soft when she speaks up:

 

“I’m not. I cannot help you. Your problem, Leviathan, can be solved in one way only; and for that, you need to take the path.”

 

Ed croaks:

 

“The path to where? For how long?”

 

“To the deep. Beyond the fog.”

 

Oswald closes his eyes, slowly moving back.

 

“We’re beyond the fog.”

 

“You are beyond one _circle_ of the fog.” Edwige moves past Oswald, heavy ruffles of her skirt fluttering. She stops next to Ed, on the other side of the curtain of fog. She gently sinks her fingertips into the fog. Her rings are glowing. “Thousands of witch words hide under the fog. It’s just a path; it’s spurs spread around those realities, entwining all of them together. You have to go deeper inside of this path - deeper than the other worlds, deeper than Hell.” She tilts her head, peeking at Ed. “Beyond death, even. To the Lazarus Pit.”

 

Oswald wobbles back to Ed and takes his hand. Ed’s palm is trembling between his fingers as he breathes:

 

“Who’s watching over it?”

 

Edwige grins; the gesture makes Oswald shiver all over, her teeth are too sharp and there are far too many of them.

 

“The Demon’s Head.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

In Oswald’s skull, the clouded thoughts are rattling and rumbling. He feels like the numb exhaustion and weariless grief are washed away from his flesh.

 

Edwige is humming in an alien language, pressing her thumb to Ed’s forehead. She’s giving him directions to the Pit, blessing him with protection. Ed’s skin is glowing like a diamond; flames flicker under Edwige’s finger.

 

She draws her hand back, looking deep into Oswald’s eye.

 

“When you step in, you have to let the fog take control of you. Do not resist, do not fight.”

 

Oswald snorts.

 

“I’ll just let it drag me anywhere it wants. Of course.”

 

“Don’t make fun of the fog, Mr. Penguin. Its power is mightier than all of ours together.” She raises his voice. “My payment, Leviathan?”

 

“I’ll come back to pay you the price.”

 

“I don’t trust you.”

 

“I don’t trust you either.”

 

Ed entwines his fingers with Oswald’s, roughly pulling him back towards the fog. Oswald takes a sharp breath as their backs sink into the thick tuft: it feels icy now and poisonous, sticking to him tighter than before.

 

The last thing he sees is Edwige puckering her lips.

 

“Don’t forget me, Leviathan. I will find you.”

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald is clinging to Ed’s hand, desperate and frightened. He can’t look at him anymore, because he can’t even see himself: not his spread arm, his feet, his chest. The fog devoured his body completely, and there’s nothing left behind but the vein-like lightning and the restless whispering.

 

Lines gleam and burn out, following the beat of his heart. They’re too close to identify, but it feels familiar - it feels like he’s seen them already. Somewhere. A long time ago.

 

_The fog touches the spirit. It unveils the hidden, the long forgotten. It’s an absolution and a curse. It rips your soul out and sticks it on your skin._

 

The parchment. _I know your secret_ . _Veni ad me_ . _Veni ad me_ . Candles burning. Ed’s warmth. The slap of his thighs as they’re fucking. The control. _Wake up_ . Something rippling inside his veins. The sound of clashing waves. Or is it a waterfall? The coldness of his tongue. _I needed you_ . _Get out of here_ . His blood, dripping down, burning and aching. Teeth in his throat. Fingers scratching. _Veni ad me_ . _Veni ad me_ . _I know your secret_. The parchment.

 

His whole body twitches as the fog chokes him again. Before it’s over, before the fog rises and his mind clears, he stoops and retches.

 

Ed’s hand slipped out of his grip.

 

 

⚓

 

 

When he wakes up, he’s throwing up. He’s kneeling on cold stone, his fingers are cramped. He shuts his eyes tight; on his closed eyelids, the lights are green and something is drip-drip-dripping, empty like rain.

 

A hand touches his crooked back, gently caressing him. Oswald dries his lips with the back of his hand. He peeks up.

 

Ed is huddled up next to him. He’s panting again, his skin is dry and grey like ash. Drops of sweat shine on his temples.

 

“Ed.”

 

“I’m here.”

 

Oswald coughs. His head is spinning.

 

“You’re... weak again.”

 

“It’s almost over. Stand up.”

 

Oswald grabs Ed’s shoulder, letting him help him up. He carefully looks around. They’re standing in the middle of a dark cave. From the stone walls, water is flowing and dripping; that’s what he heard before. In the corner, there’s a blindingly bright pond, its green water is bubbling and boiling. The color doesn’t remind Oswald of anything: it’s unlike everything he’s ever seen.

 

A hoarse chuckle trembles through the stone walls. A shadowy figure stoops above Oswald, appearing in front of him like a ghost. His face is greyer than Ed’s, his beard seems to be spun of smoke. The glance Oswald catches is dusty and dull; the whiteness of the eyes fade the tiny pupil.

 

The demon is studying him with a satisfied smirk.

 

“He’s a bit of a weakling,” he hums. Oswald can feel Ed shrugging next to him.

 

Oswald tries to straighten his spine, barking:

 

“Are you the Demon’s Head?”

 

“Oh, do you know me? You honor me, sacrifice.”

 

Oswald stumbles. Ed holds him; his steel grip is surprisingly strong.

 

“Sacrifice?”

 

“You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

 

Oswald swallows, acid vomit scratching his throat. He tries to force his hand out of Ed’s; his flailing is useless. He’s focusing on the demon so he doesn’t have to look at Ed - the sight of him, he believes, would slice into his heart like a blade.

 

It took him so long to understand. So, so long.

 

Edwige wanted him for herself. The otherworld’s prize of souls, Ed’s quick steps as he pulled him into the fog - he only needed him for his blood, to be the last life taken - he fucking dug his own grave with every promise he made, with every kiss and touch.

 

Fury is a wildfire crackling through his ribs. Now he can stare into Ed’s face, into the face that has played him all along.

 

“You fucking bastard!”

 

“Come now.” The demon’s smirk shows how entertained he is by Oswald’s lashing fight. “Don’t try to resist. There’s nothing you can do.”

 

Oswald doesn’t reply. He’s melting into Ed’s amber eyes one last time. Those eyes took him and spoiled him so many times: it seems impossible that now they’re cold and hollow, spitting him out, betraying him.

 

He was so fucking stupid. It only took Ed’s sweet nothings and gentle fingertips to take control over him, to own him, to rule him. He forgot and forgave every lie, even if Ed had never spoken the truth. He was luring him into a trap from the very fucking beginning, keeping his soul for the final moments, cherishing him like it mattered.

 

His confessions were weapons. His caring was something to spice things up. He played a cruel game. And he told him that the very first time they talked alone on board.

 

Oswald echoes, voice toneless and quiet:

 

“You fucking bastard. You fucking bastard.”

 

Ed’s fingers start trembling around Oswald’s arm. He finally lets him go, dropping on his knees next to him. His features deform like they did the other night when the pain was eating him alive from the inside.

 

Ed presses his palms to his temples, and screams in thousands of voices all at once.

 

“ _Quod est sacrificium! Accipite eum!”_

 

And the cave’s roof starts to moulder.

 

 

⚓

 

 

Oswald moves from instinct. He quickly pulls his knife out, the only blade left on his belt. He grabs Ed by his hair to bend his head back and expose his neck. Ed looks deep into his eyes - lightless and empty - as Oswald slashes.

 

The blade sinks into Ed’s neck, blood dripping, but he’s too late. He couldn’t slice his throat in time.

 

The demon hurls himself at Oswald; moist, cold lips stick to his neck and sharp fangs tear into his skin. Oswald screams, the knife falls out of his hand and hits the stone ground with an echoing clang.

 

He feels his blood pouring from his neck, boiling and shooting out in the rhythm of his heartbeat. Everything whitens: Ed’s sight is quivering and fading, but he’s still glaring at him.

 

Oswald collapses in front of him, mouth opened. They’re both on their knees, facing each other. Oswald can’t see Ed’s features anymore. The world is a huge blur.

 

Before the flickering pain reaches his brain and devours it, there’s a moment of complete silence - blindness - motionlessness - and the demon releases him.

 

There’s an unholy screech.

 

Oswald snatches to his throat, his blood coating his whole hand. He tries to breathe: he can only rattle.

 

The bastard bit through his trachea.

 

He bit through his trachea.

 

He has moments left.

 

He’s fighting with faintness, with death, when he stares at the demon, trying to figure out what the hell happened. For a moment, he thinks that mortal fear is playing a game with him, creating a living nightmare: the demon’s grey skin is dripping from his bones, flesh melting. His jaw is leaking, reaching his chest. The back of his throat is night-dark and endless, a scream slashing out of the void.

 

Oswald remembers his mother.

 

 

Then, a hand grabs him.

 

 

Oswald’s senses follow his body a beat later. Ed gripped him hard and shoved him into the bubbling water. Oswald’s back splashes into the sulphuric liquid. Before he sinks, before he drowns, he sees Ed falling next to him.

 

 

⚓

 

 

He resurges with a wet gasp and a scratchless throat. Ed is soaking wet, kneeling on the shore, hand held out for him.

 

Oswald doesn’t need to take his hand. Ed grabs him again, pulling him close, pulling him into his arms. Oswald clings to him, helplessly, cramp nails scratching his back.

 

He’s sobbing without tears or any sound.

 

Minutes pass by the time he wins over his breathlessness and shivering, finally able to speak:

 

“Don’t you… ever… use me... as  living bait.”

 

Ed quietly giggles. He embraces Oswald even tighter.

 

“Forgive me. It needed to look believable.”

 

“You should’ve fucking told me.”

 

“Forgive me.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Oswald’s forehead sticks to his Adam’s apple. He feels a wave as Ed gulps. He licks his lips, and when Ed’s chest heaves to say something, he cuts in:

 

“What is this place? This Pit?”

 

“The strongest black magic that can resurrect the dead.” Ed gains confidence to run his fingers through Oswald’s hair. “That’s why you’re still with me and I’m still with you.”

 

Oswald draws back, swallowing. He touches Ed’s jaw with trembling fingertips, whispering:

 

“Did you become human?”

 

Ed grins.

 

“ _I_ did.”

 

Oswald knots his eyebrows. Ed’s grin widens.

 

“My Captain, don’t you understand?” Ed shakes his head, giggling again. “You really didn’t know.”

 

Oswald spits:

 

“Know what?”

 

“Oswald, you’ve never been a mere human.”

 

“What the hell are you-?”

 

“I told you I saw your soul. And I knew I was right the moment we stepped into the fog and you stripped your body for me to reveal everything I wanted to see. You felt it, didn’t you?”

 

Oswald sighs, recollecting the pieces of the nightmarish illusion.

 

“I felt power. Scarlet lines under my skin, like-” Oswald blinks. “Like the symbol. The symbol I used to summon you.”

 

“It’s inside of you. It connects to you. Where did you get it?”

 

“I found it in a chest. It belonged to my father I’d never known. Do you think he-”

 

“Most likely. The power you used to summon me was stronger than it was supposed to be. Our bond was tighter than I imagined. You didn’t only control me, you owned me, you chained my soul to yours. No man should ever be able to do that to me. The blood that flows in your veins is human only in part. Your powers are still raw and unpredictable and rough. You’re sensitive to magic, the otherworld, the fog - and of course, you’re immune to my poison I spit under your skin every time I bit your neck.”

 

Oswald closes his eyes. He mumbles:

 

“That’s how you did it.”

 

“I couldn’t use a human as a bait. Human blood and my poison together are useless. But if you meld them with something else… with a witch’s blood…”

 

Oswald shakes his head in disbelief, making Ed smile. He smoothes Oswald’s hair out of his face to kiss him, to bite into his lower lip. He murmurs into his mouth:

 

“My wicked little sea witch.”

 

“Restrain yourself, bastard,” Oswald spits, deepening his nails into Ed’s jaw. He draws back a bit. His eyes are sparkling maliciously, mellowing his words. “I’m still angry with you. You almost killed me.”

 

“You’ve wanted to kill me twice,” Ed purrs.

 

“And I will try again. Why didn’t you tell me about your plan?”

 

“I didn’t want to be rude.”

 

“Rude. How about bringing a _real_ human sacrifice, leaving me out of the whole thing?”

 

“There’s no honor in the underworld. Even if I offered enough souls for them to take, they would’ve wanted to kill you. That’s the only way I could protect you.”

 

“You didn’t pay Edwige back.”

 

Ed softly shrugs.

 

“She likes me.”

 

“Does she, now?”

 

“You don’t need to worry.”

 

“If you ever say that again, I will skin you alive.”

 

“I’m already mortal, my Captain.”

 

Oswald enfolds his arms around Ed’s neck, pulling him back. He kisses him deep, and Ed nestles close with a grateful moan, licking Oswald’s tongue in his mouth. He slides his palms to Oswald’s ass, clawing him rough.

 

Oswald chuckles into their kiss. He tears into Ed’s hair, biting his cheek.

 

He mumbles:

 

“That’s exactly why, Edward Nygma. Welcome to the mortal world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My amazing beta was [[esoterrible]](http://http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/)  
> Find me on tumblr as [[captaincuppy]](http://captaincuppy.tumblr.com/)  
> So... this was it, lads and lasses and others. I really hope you enjoyed the last chapter and I didn't disappoint any of you.  
> Thank you so-so much for everyone who is reading this note right now - you are fucking amazing, and you deserve my deepest gratitude. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> I've got some gorgeous art from  
> @esoterrible, check it out [[here]](http://esoterrible.tumblr.com/post/144186061635)  
> and @hmnika [[here]](http://hmnika.tumblr.com/post/145066524500/fanart-for-avast-by-captaincuppy-its-a)  
> Show them some love if you'd like, they deserve it.♥
> 
> Also Avast! has an [[8tracks playlist]](http://8tracks.com/hmnika/avast-1) by @hmnika. It follows the story beautifully, the songs and the atmosphere are truly breathtaking.


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